


See the Fire is Sweepin'

by everywordnotsaid



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everywordnotsaid/pseuds/everywordnotsaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an easy thing, Tim thinks, to just let go. For some reason though it's a concept he's always struggled to comprehend. Maybe that'll be the death of him in the end, and he thinks he might be okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, a storm is threat'ning  
> My very life today  
> If I don't get some shelter  
> Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away
> 
> \- Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones

It was a glorious Monday morning when Tim awoke to find he’d slept through both of his alarms and that he was currently running 23 minutes late for work. Not only was he late but Monday mornings were when Art handed out assignments for the week and asked for progress updates on ongoing cases, he’s very particular about his marshals not missing them. Bolting upright with a muttered curse and practically rolling out of bed he struggled to find a pair of clean pants. He got dressed in record time, and possibly dislocated his shoulder trying to pull his shirt on. Running out the door he forgot his gun and badge on the kitchen counter and only remembers them when he’s already three blocks away. Then, when he got to work the coffee pot was empty and he had to slouch to his desk hungry, uncaffeinated, and a whopping 45 minutes late, a fact which did not go unnoticed by Raylan who glances over towards Tim’s desk and gives him a shit eating grin. He hated it when Raylan made it to work before him.

“Had a tough morning Tim?”

Tim doesn’t bother to dignify the question with a reply, just flips his desk mate off and starts to boot his computer. He’s just settling in for some boring but safe paperwork that will hopefully stem his run of bad luck when he hears the sound of the glass door to Art’s office click open and heavy footsteps sound on the floor. He groans and drops his head in a mound of case files and unwritten reports. Maybe if he just hides Art will forget about him. The footsteps continue to sound. 

“He’s walking over here isn’t he.”

It’s not so much a question as a prayer and his voice is already resigned. He hears the barely restrained glee in Raylan’s voice when he replies.

“Oh yes, he’s definitely comin’ over here.”

“How mad does he look?”

Raylan pretends to think for a second and Tim has the sudden urge to strangle him.

“Remember that time when Nelson spilled an entire pot of boilin’ hot coffee all down the front of Art’s favorite shirt?”

he nods, not liking where this is going.

“Looks angrier then that.”

Tim’s glad for the mountain of paper which serves to muffle the rather colorful curse he lets loose. He hears a throat clear and finally pulls his head off of his desk. The look on Art’s face is somewhere between ‘terrifying’ and ‘apocalyptic’

“Ah, Deputy Gutterson, how nice of you to join us this fine morning"

“Look Art, I’m really sorry ‘bout this it won’t happen again.” 

Art smiles and Tim’s empty stomach drops straight to his feet. 

“Well I sure hope not if you like havin’ a job here. Care to share what was so terribly important it kept you from your work this mornin’?” 

Tim sighs and mumbles 

“Sleptthroughm’alarm” 

Art’s smile doesn’t change, if anything it brightens in intensity just a little bit. 

“Wanna speak up a bit Tim? My ears aren’t what they used to be y’know.” 

Tim sighs. Looks like there’s not getting out of this one. 

“I uh-I slept through my alarm.” 

Art’s eyebrows rise in mock surprise and he turns to Raylan. 

“Well ain’t that a damn shame. He slept through his alarm.” 

Raylan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and Tim hates him for how much he’s enjoying this. 

“It really is Art. Here I was thinking Tim was a role model for the rest of us, to bad he’s turnin’ out to be a real disappointment.” 

Art nods sagely and turns back to Tim. 

“Well Raylan, you know what this here disappointment has earned himself?” 

“What would that be Art?” 

Art slaps down the file folder he’d been carrying down on Tim’s desk 

“Custody of the newest resident of Lexington, Kentucky Mr. Darren Wyatt.” 

Tim feels like screaming. With the luck he’s had today a witsec op is probably going to end with a bullet in him. 

“Plane lands at 10:15, I’d get a move on if I were you. Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on Mr. Wyatt would ya now?” 

He can hear Raylan snickering and gets a little satisfaction when Art says 

“If you’re enjoying this so much Raylan I’m sure Tim could use a hand.” 

That shuts him up real quick. 

Tim glances at his watch, it’s already 9:30 which doesn’t give him much time to get to the airport. Wistfully he says goodbye to the thought of a cup of coffee and a real breakfast as he stands and collects his jacket off the back of his chair. He’s grabbing the file from his desk when Rachel walks by and deposits a cup of coffee and a paper bag that on further investigation reveals a cinnamon roll and a bagel in front of him. 

“A little something for the road.” 

“Rachel, you’re an angel.” 

She smiles and turns away, walking towards the kitchen, a little extra saunter in her step. 

“Oh you know, I do my best.”

Jacket, coffee and keys in one hand and breakfast in the other he heads for the door readying himself for an unpleasant day. He’s stopped by Art sticking his head out of his office and calling out to him. 

“You be careful now Tim.” 

Tim turns and nods, giving Art a sarcastic two fingered salute. 

“Ay-ay Captain” 

Before once more making for the door, Art calls out again though all trace of humor gone from his voice. 

“Now I’m serious here Tim, this guy Wyatt’s wrapped up in some nasty shit. Don’t let yourself get wrapped up in it too.” 

Tim nods again, serious now to and a little confused by Art’s warning. 

“I promise I’ll be careful.” 

 

* * *

 

When he gets to the car he throws the file on the passenger seat and sets his drink and breakfast down in the cup holders. The drive to the airport is only about half an hour but considering this mornings track record of being on time he’d better get started now. As he drives he reaches into the paper bag and gets to work on the cinnamon roll, it’s covered in dripping white glaze (just the way Tim likes it) and soon the tips of his fingers are covered in the sugary sticky stuff. When he hits a red light he gives a his fingers a quick lick and trying his best not to get icing on the crisp white paper he flips open the folder on the seat next to him and gives the documents a cursory glance.

The first thing he see’s is a mugshot clipped to the rest of the papers. Turns out that Darren Wyatt is one ugly son of a bitch. He stares out at Tim with small wide set eyes that even in print look baleful and angry. The rest of his face isn’t much better, he looks like a bull dog without any of the charm, a big square head with flat features and an under bite. It’s a face that’s seen more then it’s fair share of violence both on the giving and the receiving side. Blurry blue ink tattoo’s are visible over the neckline of a white t-shirt and on the knuckles of his meaty hands which are wrapped around a placard and from the quality and color they look like prison tat’s to Tim. His assumption is proven true when he looks closer at the paper the picture is clipped too which turns out to be an arrest record. From what Tim can surmise his new responsibility has been in and out of the system since he turned 18. Mostly for theft, with a few B&E’s scattered in and even one charge of aggravated assault. Recently though it appears he’d gotten into the big games, and his latest offense for possession with intent to distribute got him a nickel in Baraga Correctional. Apparently Turner was rolling with the Seven Mile Blood’s now, and when he got caught with seven kilos of powder cocaine and one offense already on his record he’d offered to turn on his employers for reduced time. One line on his record catches Tim’s eye, apparently Turner had been a prime suspect in the murder of his pregnant ex girlfriend, but the DA hadn’t been able to make the charges stick. Tim grimaces and flips the file shut, the cinnamon roll suddenly heavy in his stomach. This asshole had probably killed a pregnant woman, not to mention all the other shit he’d done in his years on this planet and now Tim was stuck protecting him.

The whole thing just sat wrong, it was shit like this that made Tim hate these sorts of details. Some scumbag goes and murders somebody and because they just happens to know something about an even bigger scumbag they get off easy. It’s all bullshit in Tim’s opinion, but that’s the job he signed up for. Pulling into the airport parking lot he turns off the car and sits back, rubbing at his face. For all that he overslept he still feels exhausted. All he wants is for this day to be over so he can go get a drink or two and then crash. Unfortunately standing between him and a nice glass of Kentucky bourbon is Darren Wyatt and his bull dog face. Tim lets himself sit for a second longer and pushes himself up and prepares himself for what he is sure is not going to be a pleasant meeting.

 

* * *

  

It just takes one look at the face of the Detroit marshal to know that Darren Wyatt is going to be more then a little bit of a handful. He’s just as ugly in person as he is on camera and heavily built, well defined muscles showing through the thin cotton t-shirt he’s wearing. The marshal pulls Tim to the side for a moment to sign over custody and while Tim initials the paperwork he points back to Wyatt with his chin. 

“He’s a real piece of work ain’t he.” 

The woman gives him a long suffering look and shakes her head. 

“You have no idea. Don’t think I’ve ever been happier to sign over a detail before.” 

Tim laughs a little, and signs at the bottom. He hands over the paper and shakes hands with the women. 

“Have a safe trip back.”

She nods, 

“Thanks, you too.” 

Tim’s about to turn away when she continues 

“And hey, watch yourself with this one. He bites.” 

Tim nods back and watches her disappear back into the airport. Shaking his head he walks over to Darren, it’s like people don’t think he can handle himself all of a sudden. Maybe he should go to the gym more often, start one of those protein diets. 

“Mr. Wyatt, I’m Deputy Gutterson. I’ll be escorting you to your safe house today.” 

Wyatt doesn’t reply, just gives a sharp little nod. Up close his eyes are flat and black and dead, they remind Tim a little of shark eyes. Opaque and lifeless but disturbingly intelligent, it’s hard to tell what’s going on behind them and that gives Tim the creeps. He doesn’t like not knowing what people are thinking. As they walk through the busy airport Tim can feel those dark dead eyes on him and he gets the distinct impression that Wyatt is sizing him up. In response Tim stands a little taller, settles his features into stone. He’s met guys like this before, both during his time in Afghanistan and during his work as a marshal. They think for a second you’re weaker then them they’ll tear into you, keep pushing and pushing to see how far they can push and more often then not it ends badly. If you show them you’re not to be messed with though they won’t even try. Tim knows he’s not a big guy, not particularly tall or obviously muscular. It’s easy to categorize him as a pushover. He used to hate it, go strutting around trying to prove how tough he was and got himself in a lot of trouble. Now though, he’s recognized it for the asset it is. Guys go into a fight expecting it to be easy and he has the element of surprise. He thinks though, that Darren Wyatt isn’t the type to underestimate someone no matter how small they look.

 

* * *

 

 

When they get to the car Wyatt goes for the passenger door, but Tim stops him with a raised hand. 

“Sorry, transports go in the back seat.”

“That’s some bullshit right there.” 

And we’re off to a great start Tim thinks dryly. He can tell this is a test, Wyatt looking to see if he’s the kind that’ll give easy or not. He draws himself up. 

“It’s just protocol.” 

Wyatt frowns and doesn’t remove his hand from the car door. 

“I’ve been on an economy class flight for three and a half hours with a some goddamn baby screaming the whole time. I’ll sit in the front if I goddamn want to.” 

Wyatt’s voice is growing louder, echoing in the mostly empty garage and people are starting to look in their direction. Tim just shakes his head, feels his hand unconsciously draw towards his gun. 

“Listen, you can either sit yourself in the back seat of this car or I can cuff you and shove you in there. Which one do you want?” 

There’s a second where Tim thinks he might actually have to handcuff him but eventually Wyatt draws back and turns to the back door of the sedan, glaring at Tim the whole time. Tim gets into the front seat. Only a half hour ride cross town to the safe house and then he’s done. 

As it turns out a half an hour drive with Darren Wyatt is a long one. Tim wonders how the marshal who escorted him from Detroit survived three and a half hours with him. He’d have probably thrown himself out the goddamn plane if he had to do that. Wyatt is quiet for the first ten or so minutes of the trip, Tim keeping a careful eye on him in the rear view mirror. When he finally speaks each word is carefully enunciated, he rolls each one around in his mouth like he’s tasting it before spitting it out. The first thing he says is: 

“This place is a shit hole.” 

Tim shrugs. 

“Kentucky isn’t for everyone.” 

The second thing out of Wyatt’s mouth is: 

“Can we stop at a liquor store. I’m aching for some whiskey.” 

“I’m here to protect you, not take you shopping. Go to the liquor store on your own time.” 

Wyatt leans forward in between the seats, arms resting on the padded backs evidently bored with the scenery. Tim tenses when he feels Wyatt’s fingers hanging centimeters from his shoulder and resists the urge to slap them away. Wyatt looks over and grins, predatory and mean. 

“So, you ever killed anyone with that shiny gun hanging on your belt.” 

“None of your business.” 

Wyatt leans back still grinning, and Tim relaxes a little. 

“Oh but it is marshal. I need to know that when push comes to shove you’re gonna have what it takes to protect me. To pull the trigger.” 

Tim ignores him and focuses on the road. Wyatt just laughs 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

and Tim feels his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Wyatt keeps talking that mean feral look still on his face. 

“I bet you like it don’t you, the killing. I’ve met guys like you before in prison. You can see it clear as day, no regret in their eyes. That shit gives them a hard on. What kind of gun do you like to shoot? You a handgun kinda guy? Or maybe you like those long range rifles.” 

Tim tries his best to keep his face schooled into careful impartiality but he can’t help but flinch just a little at that. Wyatt’s eyebrows raise and he smiles a little wider. 

“So I got myself a sniper huh? You military? Got that clean cut look about you.” 

Wyatt looks out the window, amiable and flat like he’s talking about the weather. 

“Used to have a friend who was a vet. Looked just like you, all tidied up and respectable. Nobody knew that he went home and beat his wife, drank himself to sleep every day. Ended up blowing his face off with a .22. Is that what you do, Deputy Gutterson? Do you drink a little to much, like to beat your girlfriend up every now and then?” 

Tim’s fingers are white knuckled on the steering wheel now. 

“Shut up.” 

Wyatt just keeps talking, eyes on Tim’s face on the mirror now. And he reminds Tim of a lion that’s smelled blood and is going in for the kill and Tim’s the unlucky prey that’s about to be slaughtered. 

“Is that why you joined the war? So you could go to Afghanistan, Iraq, and kill all those dirty hajji’s and nobody could say shit about it?" 

Tim swerves hard and pulls into a seven eleven parking lot, throwing the car into park before twisting back to face Wyatt.

“You better shut your mouth right now or I swear to god the next person I put a bullet in will be you." 

He tries to keep his voice calm but it’s pretty much a lost cause at this point. He can feel the anger bubbling in his stomach and forcing its way up his throat and he just glares at Wyatt’s smirking face. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. No offense meant Deputy.”

Tim wants to hit him but he’s pretty sure that would be frowned upon so he settles for clenching his fists so tight he feels his nails dig into his palms. He made a mistake, showed Wyatt where his weak spot was and he’s lost ground now. 

“No more talking.”

He turns back to the front of the car and takes a deep breath before turning on the radio. Slowly and deliberately he puts the car in drive and pulls back into traffic. The radio is playing what seems to be top forty country hits and he sees Wyatt grimace in the backseat. Reaching out he turns up the radio louder and feels a little satisfaction when Wyatt glares.

The rest of the ride is silent, Tim stewing in his own fury and Wyatt in the back with that infuriating little half smile on his face. When they finally pull up in front of the safe house Tim has to resist the urge to slam the car door with a petulant child when he gets out.

“Follow me.” 

He stalks across the dying brown grass of the front yard, not bothering to check if Wyatt’s following directions and goes up to one of the two copsz

“Hey would you mind gettin’ him settled in for me.” 

The cop looks at him, and then uncertainly at his partner. He’s young, can’t be more then 21 or 22 and looks a little to small for the uniform he’s wearing 

“Ain’t the marshal’s supposed to take care of that business?”

Tim sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Usually yes but if I have to stick around this guy one minute longer you’re gonna be cuffing me for homicide, you catch my drift?”

The kid just stares at him, his mouth a little O and a helplessly innocent look on his face. The other cop steps in, older and more experienced.

“We’ll take care of it. Wouldn’t want to be the one arresting a US Marshal anyway’s. You get yourself gone.”

Tim sends a grateful look his way.

“Thanks, you saved a life today.” 

The older cop laughs and chuckles and slaps him on the shoulder and turns to lead his partner into the house. 

Tim walks back to Wyatt who’s still standing by the car staring blankly into the distance. 

“Those two gentleman inside will be gettin’ you settled. Here’s my number, call if you see anything suspicious or have any concerns about your safety.” 

Tim says, handing him his card. Wyatt stares at the little square of cardstock for a second before slipping it into his pocket. 

“What if I don’t want them to get me settled, I want you?” 

Tim just shrugs,

“Tough shit. I got other things to do then babysit you.”

And with that he walks to the car and gets in the drivers seat, turning the key in the ignition. When he pulls out of the driveway Wyatt still standing there, staring at him through the windshield with his cold shark eyes and a little smirk on his lips.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a soldier's eyes I've seen inside the devil's dreams where young men die  
> And graveyards open up their arms for mothers left to cry  
> I have seen the bleeding and I hate what we've done  
> But just like every other fool here I'll keep marching on
> 
> \- Soldier's Eyes by Jack Savoretti

Tim walks back to the office with a scowl and an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He throws his jacket over the back of his chair with a little bit more force then is entirely necessary and falls into it. Raylan’s still at his desk at he stares at him a bit warily. 

“I’m takin’ it it didn’t go to well.” 

Tim shakes his head, looks for a pen to start filling out his report. He can’t find one and starts opening drawers and slamming them shut when they don’t reveal anything. Raylan says nothing, just rolls over and holds out a pen from his own desk. Tim stares at it for a moment, like he doesn’t recognize what it is before Raylan shakes it a little and he grabs it from him. Raylan rolls back, still watching Tim carefully. His silent presence is there, and Tim can feel questioning eyes on his back. He tries to ignore it and just focus on his work but eventually it’s too much. Tim hates when Raylan does this, doesn’t even have to open his mouth just waits and Tim always cracks. He throws his pen down. 

“The guy’s a total asshole. Got a record as long as my arm too. Y’know he probably killed his own pregnant girlfriend? Killed his own unborn kid and now I have to make sure nobody offs him. Shit, I’d probably shake the hand of the person who puts a bullet this fucker.” 

Raylan’s quiet, just leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Tim keeps going, the dam broken and the words spilling out. 

“He’s got a goddamn smart mouth on him, saying stuff he has no business saying.” 

“Sounds like he got under your skin real good huh.” 

Tim pointedly avoids Raylan’s gaze because the truth is Darren Wyatt had managed to burrow his skeevy little self under Tim’s skin and he really hates it when Raylan is right (which is most of the time if he’s honest with himself). And maybe it’s because the things Wyatt says hit a little too close to home, ring with a little too much truth. Maybe it’s because Tim could so easily be the guy in his story. Maybe it’s because Wyatt makes Tim think about things he doesn’t want to think about. Whatever it is it just makes Tim want a drink, and if that happens to prove a point about Tim he doesn’t really give a damn. 

He spends the rest of the work day with an irritated out of place feeling. He keeps getting up, to re fill his coffee, print out copies of reports, whole body vibrating with a sort of nervous tension. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, like he just wants to scratch and scratch at it till it sheds like a lizards and the room is always either to hot or to cold. Raylan keeps glancing over at Tim with an unreadable expression on his face which Tim pretends not to notice, instead focusing in on the case file he’s supposed to be reviewing. He keeps rereading the same sentence over and over again, but it just never seems to stick in his head. The whole day feels warped, like a carpet you can’t quite get to lay flat, no matter how hard you press it down it always pops back up. Tim likes flat carpets. He nearly lets out a sigh of relief when work ends, throwing his unread report back into it’s folder with undue passion and standing. Before he can make a beeline for the door Raylan stops him. 

“You want to go get a drink or two?” 

Tim knows Raylan wants to try and pry what happened with Wyatt out of him, and normally he would be hesitant to let him but right now all he cares about getting out the door and to the bar. He shrugs 

“I was headin’ there anyway.” 

Raylan nods, that cautious look on his face again. 

 

* * *

 

 

Raylan lets him pick the bar, maybe sensing that it would be more trouble then it’s worth to fight about it with Tim right now. He chooses the place he always goes, a little hole in the wall bar about a ten minute drive from his house. It’s not quite a dive bar, but it’s pretty close to the line that separates dive bars from nicer establishments. Tim likes it there, it’s never got too many people in it and those who are tend not to ask too many questions about why Tim is here more nights then he isn’t. The bartender, Jake, a good guy too. He served some time in Afghanistan himself, with the marines though, and he understands why Tim’s a regular here. There’s been a few nights when Jakes the one to pick him up off the table at closing time, take his keys and call a taxi to get him home.  When he and Raylan walk in Jake gives him a small nod. 

“Your regular spot is free.” 

Tim gives him a wave of thanks and walks over to a booth tucked into the back of the room, away from the windows and slides in. Raylan takes a seat opposite him, scanning the room with discerning eyes. 

“I take it you come here a lot.” 

Tim shrugs, gestures for a waitress.  
  
“I come here as often as I need too.” 

Raylan gives him a look that seems to say he doesn’t think that’s a real answer. 

“And how often would that be?” 

Tim is saved from answering by the arrival of the waitress, she’s a pretty girl. All blonde curls and misty grey eyes, she barely looks old enough to be working in a bar, especially this one. Tim doesn’t recognize her, figures she must be a new hire. 

“What can I get for you fellas tonight?” 

Her voice is as bouncy and bright as her hair, bright like a new copper penny. 

“I’ll get a shot of bourbon and a beer to start.” 

She nods, and turns to Raylan. He smiles charmingly up at her, 

“I’ll take the same, thank you.” 

She nods again and disappears with a cheery ‘be right back with that’ and leaves he and Raylan to sit in silence. It feels uncomfortable for some reason, it’s not like he and Raylan have never gone to get a drink before they’ve done that plenty of times. He can actually be good fun once there’s a few shots in him. But this has been a bad day, and Tim normally ends bad days alone with a bottle of cheap liqour. Raylan’s here though now, and it feels like a part of Tim’s life he likes to keep hidden has been exposed. Raylan’s witnessing the ritual Tim has made for himself and he wonders if somebody else's presence will change it. His musings are interrupted by the return of the waitress and her bright shiny voice. She leans over to put his drinks down on the table and as she leans Tim catches an eyeful of a little more cleavage then her daddy would probably be happy with her showing. He keeps his eyes up and offers a tight smile. When she serves Raylan he offers her a wide grin and a mildly flirtatious comment. Tim has to resist the urge to kick him under the table. When she leaves Tim comments dryly 

“Didn’t figure you for a cradle snatcher Raylan.” 

He just shrugs, lavicious grin still in place. 

“If she’s workin’ in a place like this can’t be to much of a child can she.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, throws back his shot of bourbon and lets the fire burn it’s way through his veins and cleanse him of the feel of Wyatt’s opaque eyes. Raylan eyes him and takes his own shot, giving the empty shot glass a spin on the polished wood of the table. He lets Tim get his beer and a few more rounds after that in him before he starts to pry. Dimly Tim notices that Raylan is still nursing the same beer he started the night out with but there’s enough alcohol in his bloodstream that he doesn’t really care. He’s still playing with that shot glass. Rolling and twisting it around between his fingers and the dim lamplight refracts against the glass and sends shard of light spinning across the table. Raylan’s first question is casual, almost forcefully so and he weaves it easily into the conversation. 

“So, you don’t like your new responsibility much do you.” 

Tim snorts, taking another swig of his beer. 

“Dislike would be an understatement, I think detest would be a more appropriate word. Guy’s a piece of shit.” 

Raylan nods, the glass spins and dances, Tim watches the light on the table dance with it. Raylan asks another question, same casual tone of voice. 

“What did he say to you that’s got you all worked up?” 

Tim shrugs, stares into his whiskey. Raylan watches him from behind his beer, silent and anticipatory, like a bird of prey. Tim replies his voice is quiet. 

“Started runnin’ his mouth bout me, bout the war. Acted like he knew what he was talkin’ about. He doesn’t know shit.” 

He clams up after that, not really willing to say much more on the subject and Raylan seems to sense that. He doesn’t push further, just orders another round for both of them. Eventually Tim speaks again and this time doesn’t wait for prompting from Raylan. He’s fairly drunk by now, and the words come out a little slurred. 

“There was this cop at the safe house, real young guy. Barely old enough to drink I bet you, still wet behind the ears and fresh out of the academy. Real young y’know….” 

Tim trails off, drinks more. Raylan says nothing, waiting for to continue on his own. Tim drinks again, clears his throat. 

“Reminded me of this guy I used to know back in Afghanistan, Sam Lowell. Looked a lot like him too. Had that same stupid look on his face, looks like he’s always surprised you know?”  
  
Raylan laughs a little and the sound trickles into Tim’s ears from far away, like he’s underwater. He thinks that the cop probably isn’t that much younger then him, maybe six or seven years but it feels like a lifetime to Tim. He’s seen more then he should have ever seen, and that innocence still in the man’s eyes have long been stripped from Tim’s. 

“Like he wouldn’t know where his own feet were unless you pointed them out?” 

Tim smiles, laughs. 

“Exactly. Wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a good kid. Always’ kept a smile on his face no matter how bad shit got, a real joker. He had this girl Elly back home, wouldn’t shut up about her. Kept goin’ on and on about how he was goin’ to marry her when he got back. Kept a little picture of her taped to the inside of his helmet. She was a real pretty girl.” 

Tim goes silent again, staring at the table. Raylan nudges at him a little, 

“So, did he?” 

Tim gives him a blank look. 

“Did he what?” 

“Did he ever marry his girl back home?” 

Raylan always does this whenever Tim brings something up from his time before the Marshal service. Pokes and prods and chips away at Tim like an archeologist uncovering a long buried fossil. Digs beneath the skin to find what’s underneath, like if he hears enough stories he’ll be able to understand Tim, uncover the man behind the mystery. Some days Tim minds the prodding more then others. Today isn’t one of those days. He throws back the rest of his whiskey and sets the empty glass down.

“No. He got shot in the head standin’ five feet away from me.” 

If Raylan’s shocked by this confession it doesn’t show on his face, it remains as impassive and smooth as ever. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Tim laughs, and it’s a bitter empty sound.

“Yeah, me to.”

 

* * *

 

Raylan thinks that’s all he’s going to get out of Tim, his face starting to shut down but Tim surprises him by continuing. 

“It’s doesn’t happen like it does in the movies, y’know. There wasn’t a graceful slow motion fall to the ground or any of that shit. Just _bang”_

Tim mimes shooting someone with his fingers, 

“And then they’re gone. I-I tried to help but… there’s not much you can do about a bullet to the brain. He was gone before he hit the ground.” 

And Tim’s face twists with grief and regret and anger as he speaks, crumples into something broken and foreign and Raylan’s stomach flips. Raylan read once that only about 30% of an iceberg is visible from the surface, the rest of it, 70% or so is hidden beneath the water, invisible. Tim’s a lot like an iceberg in that regard, Raylan thinks as he watch Tim half slumped over the table stare into his empty glass with a look of poorly hidden grief on his face. There’s the part of Tim that everybody sees, the neatly dressed, professional put together Tim with a quippy one liner for every situation and a hand that never shakes on the trigger. But then there’s the rest of Tim, the part of Tim that went to Afghanistan and Iraq and didn’t come back quite the same, the part of Tim that comes to a bar so often he has a regular spot and the Tim that watched a friend get shot in the head standing right in front of him. Tim works hard to keep that 70% hidden, keep it underwater but sometimes he fails and it’s in those moments that Raylan’s truly sees the pain that Tim is hiding with his steady hands and sarcastic comments. And Raylan doesn’t mean to stir up bad memories, but Tim has to face them sometime. It’s a necessary evil, like sucking the poison out of a snake bight or re-breaking a bone that’s set wrong. There can be no healing with out the pain. The past may be just the past but it has a bad habit of defining your future, if you let it. Raylan’s learned that the hard way. 

The pretty blonde waitress comes over again to ask if they want refills. Raylan waves her away with a pointed glance at Tim’s half conscious form and she nods understandingly. As she walks away Tim looks up, a little disgruntled. 

“Why’d you do that.” 

He slurs, tongue tripping over the simple words. Raylan gives him a look. 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink for now.” 

Tim doesn’t fight him on it and that’s more of a sign of his state mind then anything else tonight. Raylan checks his watch, it’s getting late and the already sparsely populated bar is now desolate. He stands and pulls out his wallet, throwing a ten down as tip figuring it’s time to go. 

“Hey Tim, lets get you home okay.” 

Tim nods a little groggily and stumbles as he stands. Raylan prays to every god he knows that he won’t have to carry him to the car. Luckily Tim rights himself and makes his way to the door albeit slowly and unsteadily. Raylan follows, walking a little behind in case Tim decides to take a tumble. As they pass the bar the man behind it calls out, 

“Need any help gettin’ him home?” 

“I’ll be alright I think. You a friend of his?” 

The man sets down the glass he was polishing and shrugs. 

“Served in Afghanistan. We gotta help each other out.” 

Raylan nods, understanding now. He’s about to leave but something stops him, the curiosity in him making stay. 

“He do this a lot?”

He asks gesturing towards Tim. He can see the conflict on the bartenders face, to spill a brothers secrets to a man he doesn’t know or not. Maybe he sees that Raylan is a friend, because finally he shrugs. 

“More then I think is healthy.” 

Raylan nods, no surprises there. He thanks the bartender and turns to catch up to Tim, grabbing him by the arm as he walks towards his truck. 

“I don’t think so pal. I’m driving tonight.” 

Tim’s still coherent enough to protest 

“What about my car, need it to get to work” 

Raylan just steers him towards his own car. 

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, give you a lift here.” 

Tim nods sluggishly and Raylan sighs, opens up the passenger door of his town car and folds Tim’s unruly body inside before walking around and getting in the car himself. Tim’s silent most of the way home, head lolling idly against the glass and staring at nothing. Raylan gives him a glance every few minutes, mostly to make sure he doesn’t puke on his upholstery. The drive is a short one and soon he pulls up in front of Tim’s house. Tim’s half asleep so he nudges him gently, 

“Wake up, this is your stop.” 

Tim pulls himself upright, shaking his head as if to clear it from cobwebs. And mutters thanks before he starts to get out of the car. Raylan peers out after him, 

“Need me to walk to your door?” 

Tim laughs a little and Raylan is strangely relieved to hear it’s not the terrible empty one from the bar. 

“Thanks prince charming but I’m good.” 

Raylan stays and watches him make his way to the front door anyway, feeling a bit like an overanxious mother. Tim fumbles with his keys for a moment but eventually gets the door open and disappears inside. Raylan gets the sense that Tim has done this enough times before for it to be routine. The thought makes him a little sad. It’s sad to imagine Tim stumbling home night after night, alone and cold and hurting. Suddenly he’s glad he was here to watch Tim tonight, even if it was just to make sure he got in the door. It’s an empty comfort but it’s all he can give.

 

* * *

 

Tim dreams that night. Dreams he’s back in Afghanistan, dreams of hot sand and bright blue skies and gunfire rattling over his head. It’s not so much specific memories as a kaleidoscope of images, spinning in a blur through his brain. Lingering fragmentary recollections of something that once existed in a time and place. He’s lying on his stomach, high on a ridge peering through the scope at a faceless nameless victim. He’s standing in the mess tent but when he looks at his plate it’s filled with sand, he’s riding shotgun in a Humvee with his rifle pointed out the window when the world explodes into white flame. He dreams of Sam Lowell’s death. He’s standing so close he could reach out and touch him and he knows what’s coming because he’s had this dream a thousand times before. He tries to call out, to push him out of the way, tries to do something but his voice is gone and his body is frozen in place and all he can do is watch. There’s a gunshot, louder then life and abrupt, and then Sam disappears leaving a spray of blood across his face. It’s in his eyes and his mouth, warm and salty and he nearly chokes trying to spit it out. He watches Sam fall slow and twisting and his eyes are on Tim’s frightened and wide. Tonight when he runs to his side he see’s the young cop from the safe houses face staring up at him, blood running down his temple and pooling in the ground behind him and again, Tim is useless.

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the blue and into the black  
> You pay for this, but they give you that  
> And once you're gone, you can't come back  
> When you're out of the blue and into the black 
> 
> \- My My Hey Hey by Battleme

Tim wakes feeling more exhausted then he went to sleep. It’s still dark outside and he considers going for a run but the ache in his head convinces him it’s a bad idea. Instead he lies in bed staring at the cracks in his ceiling as the sun rises flooding his room with soft yellow light. He’s learned there’s no trying to go back to sleep after nights like these, it won’t come no matter how tired he is. So he lies in bed sleepless and staring until his phone rings and sends spikes of pain through his skull, sighing he rolls over and reaches for it only to find it’s not on his nightstand where it usually is. Swearing he pulls off the covers and after a minute of searching he finds it in the back pocket of the jeans he was wearing yesterday still laying discarded on the floor. He answers the call and puts the phone to his ear, falling back down on his bed. He’s greeted with Raylan’s voice on the other end of the line. 

“Finally, I was gettin’ worried you were sleeping off last night.

Tim blinks a few times and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“Nope. I’m awake, unfortunately.”

“Good. I’ll be by to pick you up in 15 minutes. Get your sorry self ready for work.”

Tim swears softly, and glances at the alarm on his bedside table. It’s nearly quarter past eight.

“You didn’t forget did you?”

Tim quickly replies in the negative and hangs up, tossing his phone on the bed beside him. It’s not exactly a lie, he vaguely remembers Raylan saying he was going to drive him to his car the next morning but it had conveniently slipped his mind until the phone call. He takes a cold three minute shower, rinsing off the sweat and grime of the night and gets dressed. Drying his hair with a towel he walks downstairs and checks his watch, 10 minutes until Raylan’s supposed to be here. No coffee this morning then. He makes sure to grab his gun and ID ahead of time, not wanting to repeat yesterday morning and just has time to throw back an aspirin when he hears honking outside. Sighing he grabs his keys and walks out to Raylan’s car, sliding into the passenger seat. He winces a little as the sun reflects through the windshield and into his sensitive eyes.

Raylan smirks as he pulls away from Tim’s house

“And how are you feelin’ this fine mornin’ Tim?”

“Shut up.”

Is Tim’s only response. Raylan just laughs and leaves Tim to his hung over misery as he drives to the bar. When they get there Tim is glad to see his truck has survived the night unscathed. He gets out, thanks Raylan for the ride and walks over to his car, watching Raylan drive away. Sighing again he gets into his car and sticks his keys into the ignition.

He walks into the office and makes a bee-line for the kitchen. Raylan is nowhere to be seen, apparently having come and gone before Tim’s arrival, Tim’s almost grateful. He doesn’t remember exactly he told Raylan last night but probably something he wishes he hadn’t and he’s glad not to have to the broach the topic with him just yet. The gods have chosen to smile on him today and the coffee pot is full. Pouring himself a mug he walks to his desk and sets it down, intent on finishing the paperwork he neglected yesterday. He’s just settled in when his phone rings, checking the ID he see’s Darren Wyatt’s name flashing on the screen and groans. He wishes so much that it wasn’t his job to answer it. He presses accept

“Deputy Gutterson?”  
  
Wyatt’s gravelly voice sounds over the phone.

“Yes, what is it Wyatt?”

“Good mornin’ Deputy, you sound a little tired? Had a rough night?”

Even the innocent question makes Tim’s hackles rise and he can feel his fingers tense on the plastic of his cell.

“Wyatt, I’m busy, get to the point.”

“Well Deputy, I really don’t like the color of the walls in this house. Can you do something about them? It’s really messing with my feng shui” 

Tim resists the urge to throw his phone across the room.

“Not my problem.”

He hangs up and throws his phone down on the desk. Rachel’s walks up to his desk and catches the end of the call, eying the discarded phone. 

“Who was that?”

Tim replies angrily

“An idiot who likes to waste federal agents time because he’s an asshole.”

She raises an eyebrow,

“Sorry I asked. Need something to get your mind off that particular asshole?”

Tim’s already standing, shrugging on his jacket. 

“Yes god please.”

 

* * *

 

Turns out Rachel’s version of getting his mind off of Wyatt is helping to deliver a court summons in the back country south of Lexington. The recipient is a 73 year old man who was caught with three unregistered fire arms in his shed.

  
“You really need my help with this? The guys like 80 years old.” 

Rachel takes her eyes off the road to glare at him.

“No, I don’t _need_ your help but I figured you needed to get out of the office for a bit.”

Tim raises his hand in a peaceful gesture, recalcitrant.

“Sorry, sorry. I appreciate the gesture.”

They drive in silence for a little bit, Rachel somewhere in her own world and Tim trying to ignore the headache currently pounding behind his eyeballs. Rachel is the one to finally break the silence.

“So, want to talk about what happened with that witness you took custody of yesterday?”  
  
Tim sighs and rubs his fingers into his eyes, tired of everybody asking if he was okay. When he replies it’s a little bit terse.

“Nothing happened okay? He’s just a dick, end of story. Don’t know why everybody’s makin’ a fuss about it.” 

“Tim, don’t bullshit me. You came back yesterday from that transport all anxious and jumpy and went out right after to work to drink with Raylan. Now you come in hung over as hell and snippy too. Something’s going on.”

Tim sighs again, defeated. He never could slip anything past Rachel, with her bright eyes and voice that’s kinder then he deserves.

“This guy Wyatt he just… just said some stuff that really hit some sore spots. That’s all. He’s an asshole who likes to push buttons but that’s it. I’m fine." 

Rachel doesn’t seem to believe him but she lets the matter rest and for that Tim’s grateful. They spend the rest of the car ride talking about Nick, he just made his schools varsity basketball team, and the old lady across the street from Tim who he helps out with her garden every now and then. It's ordinary mundane stuff and Tim relaxes into it.When Rachel finally pulls up outside the address for the warrant he looks doubtfully out the window, the house is dilapidated and run down. Paint peeling and windows grimy and dim the place looks uninhabited.

“Damn this place is a dump, are you sure somebody actually lives here?” 

Rachel rechecks the file,

“Well this is the address we have, lets knock and see if anyone’s home.”

He steps out of the car and stretches, arching his back and rolling his neck. Rachel gets out behind him and walks to stand next to him. He’s interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He has a sinking feeling he already knows what it, one glance at caller ID confirms his suspicions. Glaring at the phone he turns to Rachel,

“Sorry need to take this, it’ll just be a minute.”

Rachel nods and he walks a little ways away and answers the call. He doesn’t even let Wyatt get a word in, just starts to talk

“Look, I don’t care of you don’t like the color of your walls or the curtains or whatever it’s not my goddamn problem and right now you’re getting in the way of me doing my real job. Do you not understand the concept of an emergency Wyatt? Keep callin’ me like this and I’m going to start not answerin’ ”

Wyatt just responds in his annoying voice 

“Oh but you have to Deputy, it’s your job isn’t it? Wouldn’t look good if an important witness got killed on your watch cause you wouldn’t pick up the phone would it.” 

Tim hates it, because he’s right. Every time he Wyatt calls he has to answer and that infuriates him.

“Anyways, I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. I think I was wrong about you.”

Tim knows he should just hang up now but he can’t resist answering, some morbid part of him curious about what Wyatt’s going to say.

“Oh yeah? And what’s your new diagnoses smart ass?”

Wyatt laughs and the sound scrapes at Tim’s ears like sandpaper.

“I don’t think you love to kill, I think you hate it. I think you hate it so much you’re starting to hate yourself.”

Tim ends the call with such force the weak plastic creaks under his finger. He shoves the phone deep into his pocket and tries to tamp down on the fury bubbling in his throat. He walks past Rachel, striding angrily towards the house. She jogs a little behind him to catch up.

“You okay?”  
  
He doesn’t look at her when he replies.

“I’m fine. Lets get this over with.”

She shakes her head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _men’_ before following him onto the porch. He raps hard and fast on the door.

“Federal marshals open up.”

There’s no response and he raises his hand to knock again, but he never gets the chance. There’s a loud bang and then a bullet comes tearing through the flimsy door about three inches from his face, throwing wooden splinters everywhere in it s wake. The blast half deafens him, definitely a shotgun he think vaguely to himself, and hears Rachel shouting into the house. He draws to the side of the door, pulling his glock out and shakes his head to clear his ears of the ringing. Rachel’s pressed against the wall on the other side of the door, gun in hand. He whispers across the divide.

“Cover me, I’m goin’ in on three.”

She shakes her head, whispers back

“Tim, we don’t know what’s inside. We should pull back-”

He doesn’t give her time to finish just starts counting down from three on his fingers, she swears low and hard and then re adjusts her grip on her weapon. With a deep breath Tim ducks around the frame of the door and inside the house. The place is dimly lit and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. When they do he sees a boy who can’t be more then 23 or 24 crouched behind a dirty couch with a pump action shot gun pointed over it directly at Tim. He hears Rachel come in after him, feels her presence just behind his left shoulder but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the kid, and more importantly the shot gun in his hands. 

“Listen, you’ve already got yourself in a load of shit kid. Put down the gun and we’ll talk. You don’t and there’s no way this doesn’t end with a bullet in you.”

There’s a tense moment where the boy just glares at him unmoving, but eventually he grins and throws the shot gun down, raising his hands up. Rachel holsters her gun and moves to handcuff him. 

“Aw, come on now officers. I didn’t mean to shoot at you guys, my finger just slipped on the trigger.”

Tim holsters his own glock and moves over to kick the shot gun away, replying dryly

“Yeah, sure your finger slipped on the trigger and I’m the prince of Persia.”

Rachel finishes cuffing him and steps back, hands on her hips.

“So, what are you doing in Ted Billings house.”

The kids shrugs,

“I’m his grandson Will. I have a right to be here. My wallets on the table over there, you can check my ID if you want assholes.”

Tim walks over to the table and flips open the worn leather wallet, takes out the drivers license he finds inside. There’s a picture that matches their handcuffed miscreant with the name William Billings printed below. He puts it back in and turns to Rachel.

“Checks out.”

She nods and continues to question Will.

“So, you have any idea where your grandpa might be? We’re looking for him.”

He says nothing, just slowly and deliberately spits at their feet. Rachel just sighs and shakes her head.

“Look, you just assaulted two _federal officers_ with a deadly weapon, that’s up to 20 years in prison and a sizeable fine. You can either talk to us now and we’ll put in a good word for you with the judge, or if you refuse to co operate we’ll take you back and make sure you get that maximum sentence. You’ll be a middle aged man by the time you get out.”

Will’s face goes to tight and angry and he says

“I ain’t telling you shit.”

Then he turns to Tim

“you need to get your bitch under control before she gets herself hurt.”

  
Something snaps inside Tim, something sharp and hot and dangerous and he takes a step forward and clocks Will right in the face. He only gets one more solid swing in before Rachel’s hands are on his arm, his chest, pulling him back away. Her voice is loud and angry shouting something but he can’t hear the words, he’s to busy fighting her grip on him to get at Will. It takes him a minute of Rachel’s voice in his ear before he stops struggling. He brushes her hands off his arm, turns and walks to the wall behind him, puts a hand against it and leans breathing hard and fast. Rachel comes up behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder and spins him around. Her face is fierce and angry. 

“What the fuck was that?”

She hisses low and intent. Behind her Will is moaning on the floor, blood streaming from his nose. Tim hopes he broke it. Rachel’s insistent, pulling back his attention to her small waving hands. Will shouts angrily from the ground

“Jesus christ. I think that asshole broke my nose!”

“Shut up.”

Rachel doesn’t even spare him a glance, keeps her eyes on Tim barking the command over her shoulder.

“Tim answer me.”

He wipes at his face with his hand, tries to take a deep breath.

“I just… I don’t know I got angry.”

“Yeah, I was angry too. Doesn’t mean you get to assault a handcuffed witness. And what was that kamikaze move you pulled earlier? Running in like that, you could’ve gotten killed Tim. You’re lucky it was just an idiot kid.”

Tim feels his fists clench, feels the urge to punch something again rising. He swears, once.

“Shit.”

Somehow it doesn’t feel like enough so he swears again, louder this time. Rachel isn’t glaring anymore, now her gaze is gentler, almost concerned. Her voice is still stern when she speaks but its softer now.

“Look, I appreciate you trying to defend me but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. You can’t let your anger take control like that Tim, this is the first and last time you understand?”

Tim nods, mouth working. She stares at him for a second longer then walks over to Will and picks him up off the floor.

“Okay hotshot, time to go.”

He’s still spitting blood, murderous look on his face. He glares at Tim as they pass and Tim gives him his sunniest smile in return. He follows the pair out, a little behind and rubs at bruised knuckles.

Rachel’s just finished putting Will in the back of the car when there’s a screeching noise and a truck in just about the same condition as the house pulls up. An old man hops out, a look somewhere between concerned and exasperated on his face and walks quickly over to Tim.

“Shit, what did my dumb ass grandson do this time?”

Rachel replies over the top of the car

“Your grand son took a pot shot at two US marshal’s is what he did.”

The old man swears and Tim takes the opportunity to jump in.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Ted Billings would you?”

The man nods

“The one and only.”

He sticks out his hand and Tim shakes it.

“I’m Deputy Gutterson, this is Deputy Brooks.”

He says, gesturing back to Rachel.

“Well it’s nice to meet you folks, wish it had been under better circumstances. So how bad is it? We lookin’ at serious jail time here?”

Tim shrugs, squints against the sun.

“Could be worse, he didn’t hit either of us. He might not go to jail.”

Ted Billings sighs and shakes his head.

“Guess that’s all I can ask for with Willie. I leave his fool self alone for an hour and he gets himself arrested… Figures.”

Tim likes Billings. His faces is creased with lines like back country roads and his skin is hard and leathery from to much time in the sun but it’s friendly and open. His eyes shine like polished granite from underneath his craggy brows and hidden in them is a sparkle of humor. It’s just his luck Tim has to deliver more bad news.

“Mr. Billing’s, we were originally here lookin’ for you. You have a court date comin’ up, charges are for three unregistered fire arms found in your shed.”

Tim hands over the summons. Billing’s doesn’t look surprised exactly, just resigned. He flips through the paper, giving it a cursory glance before he folds it up and sticks it in the back pocket of his jeans and nods.

“Is there any way I could talk to Will before you guys take him back?”

Tim looks back at Rachel who shrugs, and then nods to Billings.

“Yeah, I can give you a minute or two.”

Billing’s thanks him and Tim opens the back door, letting him slide in beside his grandson. He and Rachel walk a couple steps away to give the pair some privacy. They stand, arms crossed and watch as Will gets what looks to be an earful from his grandpa.

“How does a guy like that have such an ass hat as a grand kid.”

Rachel gives him a side ways look.

“You like him, don’t you.”

Tim shrugs, spits on the dust of the driveway.

“I think he seems like a good guy.”

Rachel stares at Billings for a second before nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, he does.”

Billings seems to have finished his lecture, pulling open the door to get out of the car and walking over to the two deputies.

“Do me a favor and don’t be to hard on him alright? He’s an idiot but an harmless one.”

Tim wants to make a comment about how he didn’t seem so harmless when he fired a shotgun shell less then a foot from Tim’s face but Rachel senses it and elbows him lightly effectively restraining him. She smiles, that sweet kind Rachel smiles she reserves for old people and her nephew and promises him they will. He shakes both their hands again then slowly walks back towards the house, disappearing inside with a last look at his grandson. Tim watches the empty porch for a while, chewing on his lip and thinking until Rachel nudges him with her shoulder. 

“I don’t know about you but I want to get back before Art calls out the search parties.”

He nods absentmindedly and follows her to the car.

Whatever his grandfather told him apparently has done much for his attitude because as soon as they get in Will starts talking again,

“I’m goin’ to sue you for assault you asshole. I’m gonna show everybody my nose and tell ‘em how you beat me up while I was handcuffed and get your white ass fired. And then I’m goin’ to sue the bitch for not doin’ anything.”

Rachel gives him an icy glare in the rear view mirror.

“Nobody’s suing anybody. As far as I’m concerned you slipped and hit your nose on a table.”

Will gives her a shocked look.

“You can’t do that! You can’t just lie!”

Tim chimes in

“Who do you think they’re goin’ to believe. A US marshal or the punk who just tried to shoot said US marshal.”

Will’s shocked look turns to panic and his voice when he replies sounds less angry and more like a whining child.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to shoot you you know. Just tryin’ to scare you a bit, I wasn’t even close to hittin’ you.”

Rachel snaps back in her angriest voice.

“Save it for the jury.”

Will spends the rest of the ride in sullen and slightly terrified silence. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep don't visit so I choke on sun,  
> and the days blur into one  
> And the backs of my eyes hum  
> with things I've never done
> 
> -Welcome Home Son by Radical Face

They drop Will off at the Lexington police station and Tim is glad to have the sullen kid out of the car. When they pull up outside of the marshal’s office Tim moves to get out of the car but Rachel’s hand on his arm stops him. 

“Tim, I’m not lying for you again. If this happens anymore you’re on your own.” 

Tim nods, and he’s serious too. He knows what it means for Rachel to lie and he appreciates it.

“Could you not tell Art about this? He’ll probably make a big deal of it, blow it out of proportion.”

Rachel looks hesitant, conflict clear on face. Tim arranges his features into the most pleading look he can manage,

“Please Rachel? Coffee's on me for a week.”

She sighs, and Tim knows he’s won.

“Alright, but if you step one toe out of line I’m telling Art all right? Don’t make me regret this.”

Tim smiles

“I won’t I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tim resists his curiosity for a good hour and a half before he breaks and has Lexington PD send over Ted Billing’s case files. After a few minutes on the phone with a brusque and professional women his email dings and he opens the attachment and downloads the scanned documents. Wonders of the modern world.

He scans the screen for a few moments and his face twists into a frown. This is Kentucky, it has some of the most liberal gun laws in the US so a few unregistered fire arms shouldn’t be that big a deal, maybe a fine but probably no jail time. Ted Billings however was convicted of burglary when he was 27 years old, meaning he’s a felon. Possession of any firearm by a felon unregistered or not could mean up to five years in prison and somehow Tim doesn’t think Ted Billing’s would survive five years in prison. Digging into the police report his frown only deepens. Thinking back on the friendly old man he met he can’t think of any reason he would have one, let alone three semi automatic weapons sitting in his shed. There’s nothing outright wrong about the report but something about it seems off to Tim and even when he tries to focus on his actual job it niggles at the back of his mind. Taking a glance at the name on the report he takes off from work early and drives down to the police station. Walking up to the front desk he gives the name to the desk sergeant. She inspects it for a moment,

“Officer Platt’s out on a call at the moment, feel free to wait though.”

Tim thanks the woman, takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, and settles in to wait. It’s comfortably warm in the station house, afternoon sun streaming in through the high set windows and illuminating thousands of dust motes dancing in the air. Despite the piece of plastic digging itself into Tim’s ass he finds himself drifting in and out of a restless sleep. He doesn’t know how much time’s passed when a voice calls out his name, jolting him awake. The cop standing before him is the same one who saved him from murdering Wyatt at the safe house.

“Fancy seein’ you here Deputy Gutterson.”

Tim nods a little blearily, running a hand through his hair and standing carefully wincing as his legs tingle.

“What is it you wanted to see me about?”

Tim has to search for a bit before his memories snap back.

“You were the officer on scene in Ted Billing’s case a few weeks back right?”

Platt nods,

“Yeah I was, it was a strange thing I’ll tell you that.”

Tim’s ears perk up

“Strange how?”

Platt shrugs, crosses his arms.

“Well when I told him about the guns in his shed he looked almost surprised. Now I’ve know Ted a few years, never seen him with a gun. Whole thing seemed off if you ask me, but then nobody does ask me anythin’... What’s your interest in the case?”

Tim shrugs, not really sure himself.

“Went down to serve his court summons today, had a run in with his grand son Will. Just sparked my curiosity I guess."

When Tim mentions Will’s name Platt’s eyebrows raise.

“Saw Will was in earlier for shootin’ at some deputies, didn’t realize you were one of them. He’s a trouble maker that one. Already been in prison for possession of an illegal fire arm. Likes to stir shit up with those red neck gangs down south of here. Real bad egg.”

Tim nods slowly, the pieces slowly starting to fall into place in his mind.

“How’s Will doin’ by the way?”

Tim doesn't know why he asks, morbid curiosity maybe. Platt shrugs, sniffs.

“We’ve got him locked up tight for right now. He has a hearin’ with a judge tomorrow morning. As long as neither you or your partner speak up he’ll probably get out on bail.”

Tim thanks Platt for his help and then walks out to his truck. He doesn’t drive away immediately, instead pulls out his phone and texts Raylan asking for Ted Billings number. He doesn’t ask Rachel because she would probably tell him it’s not a good idea to get involved with this and she would probably be right and he doesn’t want to hear the truth from somebody else’s mouth. Raylan replies quickly, his phone buzzing a minute after he sends the message.

_Who's Ted Billings and why do you need his number?_

_To call him._

Raylan texts back annoyingly persistent

_Why do you need to call him?_

Tim stares at the streaks of dust that lay on his windshield and prays for patience.

_I need to ask him a question._

_What question?_

At this point Tim is starting to regret asking Raylan and he says as much. Finally Raylan texts the number and Tim heaves a sigh of relief, dialing the number. As the phone rings he puts his truck into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. After four rings the line connects and Billings scratchy voice sounds.

“Hello, this is Deputy Gutterson. We met this morning at your property this morning.”

“Oh yes, couldn’t forget that now could I. Is this about Will?”

Billing’s voice is eager and questioning and Tim’s glad he thought to ask Platt about the younger Billing.

“It isn’t but I just heard he’ll probably be gettin’ out on bail tomorrow morning.”  
  
There’s a sigh of relief on the other end of the line and Tim thinks again that Will doesn’t deserve someone who obviously cares so much about his well being if he’s just going to waste it.

“Well thanks for the good news. If this isn’t about Will why you callin’ Deputy?”

“I was actually lookin’ to talk to you Mr. Billings. Do you think we could meet up sometime tomorrow?”

Billings when he speaks again sounds confused and vaguely suspicious.

“Now what would you want to talk to me about? I already told the police everything about those guns they found in my shed. I ain’t hidin’ nothin’.”

“I don’t think you are. I just wanted to ask you some questions concerning your grandson. I know a real good diner just down the street from my office, I’ll treat you to lunch.”

Tim wheedles and finally Billings acquiesces and they plan to meet for lunch at two o’clock tomorrow. Tim ends the call and throws his phone on the seat beside him and sighs, wondering about what he’s getting himself into.

That night he goes straight to bed, to tired to do anything else. If he dreams he doesn’t remember them but he wakes up at five with an unsettled feeling and sweat soaked sheets. He lies in bed for another half an hour before he gives up on sleep and goes for a run. He runs until the sun rises and his muscles burn and ache with exhaustion. He likes the physical exertion, always has even before he joined the army. When he runs for a moment he can set down the weight of the memories that haunt his sleep and dog his waking steps. For a moment he is free. It always ends though, he always has to stop running. And when he stops he picks them up again, wraps his demons carefully around his neck like a noose and hopes the knot doesn’t slip tight against his throat.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The hours at work past too slow, Tim sits at his desk and taps anxiously at his desk and glances at his watch. By the time it’s 12:30 Tim’s had three cups of coffee which have succeeded in doing nothing but increasing his heart rate with no change in exhaustion. To make things worse Wyatt calls again, this time complaining about the distance of his new home from the nearest liquor store. Tim irritably tells him to stick it where the sun don’t shine. Not quite professional, but Tim had lost patience (and with it the ability to act professionally) with Wyatt about five minutes after meeting him. When 1:45 rolls around he’s out of the office like a speeding bullet. Raylan watches him go and calls out 

“Got a hot lunch date Tim?”  
  
Tim shoots him a grin,

“Wouldn’t you like to know Raylan.”

It’s a nice day out and the diner Tim picked is only a few blocks away so he decides to walk, enjoying the feel of sun on his face and fresh air. He still aches a little from his morning run but it’s a good ache, a productive one and he doesn’t mind it. He thinks about the conversation he’s about to have with Ted Billings as he walks, and realizes it’s probably not going to be one he enjoys.

When he gets to the diner and pushes open the shining glass door he only has to scan the place for a second before he see’s Billing’s sitting in one of the booths by the wide front windows of the restaurant. He has a worn baseball hat on the table beside him and sitting with his grizzled suntanned face and button downed flannel he looks for all the world like a character out of some Clint Eastwood gunslinger film. With a wave of greeting Tim walks over and slides onto the bench opposite him.

“You ordered yet?”

Billings shakes his head,

“Just a coffee. Figured I’d be polite and wait for you.”

“Good, I’ll tell you right now the best thing on the menu is the beef burger with a side of southern fried green tomatoes. I get them every time.”

Billing’s smiles, a broad wide smile that spreads across his whole face.

“Well, I trust your judgment Deputy Gutterson.”

When the waitress comes Tim orders his usual with a cup of black coffee. When she turns to Billings he gestures towards Tim

“I’ll have the same as him sweetheart.”

She nods and disappears into the kitchen. Billing’s leans back, takes a long sip of his coffee and gives Tim a discerning look.

“So, what did you drag me all the way down to Lexington to talk about? I don’t think an old geezer like me’s your first choice for a lunch date.”

Tim smiles, acknowledges Ted’s joke.

“Well I actually I just noticed a few inconsistencies in your case I wanted to ask you about Mr. Billings”

Billings takes another sip of his coffee.

“Call me Ted, Mr. Billings makes me sound so old.”

He laughs a little, a deep guttural sound.

“I guess I am old but that don’t mean I like to be reminded of it.”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with Tim’s cup of coffee. He thanks her and takes a sip, sighs. He’s always appreciated the coffee here. They make it just how he likes it: rich and black, with just a little hint of bitter. Nothing like the watery bean water they’d called coffee in Afghanistan. He pushes the thought away, focuses on the present. Ted lets him set his mug down before he continues.

“Now what inconsistencies might those be Deputy?”

Tim looks out the window for a moment, considers his next words carefully.

“You were convicted of grand larceny when you were 25 correct?”

Ted sighs, looking not exactly ashamed but resigned.

“So you took a peek at my file huh? Yeah, I did some stupid shit when I was younger. Got caught stealing old TV’s from a used electronics store. I served my time though, got right with the law.”

He says electronics funny, like it’s three separate words. Stretches out the e all long and hard, eeee-lec-tronics. Tim shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, trying to get rid of the buzzing in his ears.

“And you do know as a felon possessing any kind of fire arm is a major crime.”

As Tim’s talking their food arrives and the conversation is derailed. Ted thanks the waitress, takes a big bite of burger and chews slowly, nodding appreciatively.

“Damn, you were right. This place does whip up a mean burger.”

Tim smiles tightly. They do make a good burger but even as it sits on Tim’s plate juicy and gleaming he doesn’t feel any appetite. He picks at the fried tomatoes on the side, takes a few bites as Ted packs away his burger. When he’s got through about two thirds of it he sets it down, wiping his hands with the napkin on his lap. Tim finally speaks again.

“So, you did know this right?”

Ted sighs, takes a bite of tomato. 

“Yes, I was aware of this fact. What does it matter?”

Tim looks at him intently

“If you knew, then why did you have three guns just sittin’ in your shed? What would you need with three semi automatic weapons? Doesn’t seem like somethin’ you’d whip out for duck hunting.” 

Ted shrugs, a little uncomfortably and takes another bite.

"I don't live in the safest part of town Deputy, they were for protection."

Tim doesn’t back off though, sensing he’s closing in on the truth he presses harder. 

“Those guns are goin’ to send you to prison Ted, maybe for a decade. That’s a long time. Do you really want that?”

Ted sets down his fork and knife and looks out the window, mouth twisting. Eventually sighs and looks back to Tim. His voice when he replies has a little steel in it.

“Of course I don’t want to go to prison. But I got caught, and now I have to face the music, not much I can do about it. It’s not about what you or I want, it’s about the law. You should know that better then anyone Deputy Gutterson.”

Tim leans forward in his seat, pushing aside his plate of untouched food and his voice comes out low and intense.

“But you don’t have to, because those guns weren’t yours were they. They were Will’s. All you have to do is tell the truth in court.”

Ted looks for a moment like he’s going to protest, face growing dark and stormy but then it clears and he just looks tired.

“Well shit, looks like you got me figured out. How’d you know?”

Tim sits back, shrugs a little and tries to conceal his satisfaction.

“Wasn’t to hard. You don’t have a mark on your record since that grand larceny charge in ’66. Will already has one conviction for illegal firearm possession, it just added up.”

“I’m impressed Deputy, that’s some nice detective work right there. Unfortunately it’ll be goin’ to waste. I’m not changing my story.”

Tim shakes his head a little angrily.

“Why? Ten years is along time Ted, you want to spend the rest of your good years in jail? If you make it out at all? I understand Will’s blood, I do, but he’s shown he isn’t goin’ to be makin’ good choices. Why take the fall for him?”

Ted sighs and pushes aside his own plates, rubbing at his short grey beard with a veined hand.

“Will’s daddy, my son, left him when he was barely three. His momma was a good for nothin’ crack addict who over dosed in the bathtub two years later. I didn’t want to see Will go into the foster system so I took him in, tried to do right by him the way my son couldn’t. He had a rough time growin’ up and I did my best to be there for him but it’s hard for an old man like me to be a father. He already one offense under his belt, a second means he could go away for five years. I owe him this much, I’ve had a long time to live my life I want to let him live his.” 

Tim lets out a low noise of frustration and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know why he’s fighting so hard for this man when he won’t fight for himself but he knows he’s not ready to give up. Maybe it’s because Ted Billing’s was the kind of man who Tim would have wanted to be there for his child hood self, maybe it’s because he doesn’t think it’s right to see a good man go to prison for an ungrateful delinquent. Maybe it’s any of one hundred and one issues Tim has that he’d rather not dredge up, now or ever.

“Look, five years might seem like a long time but Will’s a young kid. He’ll be out before he’s thirty, maybe earlier with parole and he’ll probably learn a few lessons. It’s not worth it to take the fall for him.”

By the end of Tim’s speech there’s a note of desperation in his voice. Ted just shakes his head.

“You’ve seen Will, he’s not cut out for prison. He’ll never make it, he’s not the kind of strong that prison requires you to be. One year in there fucked him up enough, I can’t let him sit through five.”

“You aren’t going to change your mind are you.”

Ted chuckles, and Tim’s stomach twists at the sound.

“No I am not. I’ve always been told I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. I appreciate your concern though, you’re a good man Deputy Gutterson. Now I have some things to do, so I’ll be excusin’ myself. Thank you for lunch.”

With that last statement Ted stands up and grabs his worn baseball hat off the table and pulls it down onto his head. With a last half smile at Tim and a little wave he’s out the door and down the street, his broad shoulders illuminated against the sun, broad and unbowed by the burden he’s decided to carry leaving Tim with an empty feeling in his chest. _You’re a good man._ The words echo in his head and Tim isn’t so sure it’s true, because even this is an attempt to save himself. This is repentance, and it has everything to do with guilt and little to do with Ted Billings, no matter how good of a man he might be.

Tim sits and stares at the plate of food in front of him and resists the urge to smash the blue and white porcelain plate to bits. He takes a deep breath, sets his elbows on the table and lets his head fall into his hands. Closes his eyes and counts to ten and tries not to let a sudden dark wave of despair and doubt drag him down. A voice cuts through his moping. 

“Hey honey, you alright?”

Tim looks up to see their waitress standing with a maternally concerned look on her face and a pot of coffee in her hands.

“Yeah, uh, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

She holds up her pot a little higher and points to his mostly empty mug

“Want a refill?”  
  
He forces a smile on his face, and shakes his head.

“I’m good, could I get the check now?”

She nods and tells him she’ll be right back, clearing the dishes, Ted’s wiped clean and his barely touched, as she goes. She’s back a moment later and leaves the receipt and a little mint wrapped in green aluminum foil in a black plastic tray. He doesn’t even look at the total, just pulls a twenty out of his wallet and throws it on the table. He leaves the mint. Tim walks out of the dinner feeling tired and frustrated and much older then his 29 years. Guess that’s what he gets for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, good intentions or not. He’s reminded of that quote, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Ain’t that the goddamn truth.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My whole life I been picking fights there ain't no way to win  
> Got a hundred scars I should have run away now tattooed on my skin  
> There's a side of me that just won't stop dancin' in the flame  
> Maybe I just get off on the pain
> 
> -Get Off on the Pain by Gary Allen

 

Raylan spends the better part of his Wednesday morning avoiding Art. He had walked into work to see Art hovering by his office door, gaze locked onto Raylan’s empty desk and a look in his eye that Raylan didn’t like. This was the look Art got when he was about to ask Raylan questions he didn’t want to answer, things like 'why did you shoot him' or 'are you sleeping with your ex wife yet again' or Raylan's favorite 'should I be concerned'. He had been doing a pretty good job of it so far, considering there were only so many places to hide in a small office but Raylan had perfected the art of disappearing when he needed. He made it almost to lunch time too, but in a frustrating turn of events Art cornered him in the locker room, stepping in and closing the door behind him large frame ensuring there was no escape. Raylan eyes him uncertainly, Art just looks concerned though, running his hand over his skull.

“How do you think Tim is doin’?”

Raylan shrugs, not really comfortable divulging any information about Tim. It feels wrong to talk about him like this when he obviously works so hard to keep his business his business. He answers carefully

“I think this thing with Wyatt’s got him on edge.”

Art sighs and nods,

“I don’t know what is but this guys really getting’ under his skin. If I’d known he would take it this badly I would never have given him the assignment.”

Raylan closes the door to his locker and turns to face Art, leaning against the ridged metal structure.

“You can’t blame yourself Art, no one knew he’d react this way.”

Art sighs again, that same look of concern still etched onto his face.

“I guess I know that, it’s just he looks terrible. Doesn’t look like he’s gotten a good nights sleep in days, always fidgeting around. Yesterday he nearly threw himself in front of a goddamn bullet according to Rachel, wouldn’t wait for back up or anythin’”  
  
Raylan frowns at that, because that’s not like Tim at all. Tim is tactical, careful, strategic. Not to say he isn’t one of the craziest motherfuckers Raylan’s met but he isn’t the type to barge into a situation with no knowledge of all the variables, there’s method to his madness. That he’s throwing all that to the wind is more concerning then anything else. The thing is, everybody knows Tim has issues, you’d have to be blind not to see them. But this case is throwing them into high relief and suddenly they’re getting a lot harder to ignore. Getting a lot harder for Tim to sweep under the rug and hide. Like a heavy rain forces worms to the surface and leaves them wriggling and exposed on damp pavement Tim’s demons are forcing their way to the surface and they aren’t pretty. Art continues, 

“You went out with him a few days ago, did he say anything?” 

Raylan shakes his head immediately, because this is ground he should not be treading on. What Tim said to him that night, laced with grief and alcohol is not for Raylan to share. Not his story to tell, and no matter how much Raylan respects Art he won’t give Tim up even to him. There are some lines you just don’t cross. 

“Nothin' much Art. Just got drunk, shot the shit. You know how it is. Now if you'll excuse me I have somethin' I really need to be gettin' too.”

Art gives him a suspicious look, obviously spotting his weak excuse but he steps aside (albeit reluctantly) and lets him escape. As Raylan crosses the office to the door he takes a moment to really look at Tim who’ sitting hunched at his desk. Art’s right, he looks like crap. He’s pale and there are dark smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, his face has lines Raylan’s never seen before. Worst though is the haunted look in his eyes, like evening shadows that never go away. There’s a sense of urgency in his still body, a sense of danger. Even now, sitting at his desk he looks like he’s waiting for something, a coiled loop of nervous energy and Raylan wonders what happens when it springs. Tim glances up and catches Raylan’s eyes, Raylan doesn’t look away. Hold’s Tim gaze long enough to mean something and he hopes that in it Tim will see that he doesn’t always have to be alone. Tim looks away.

 

* * *

 

Ted Billing’s trial takes place on a beautiful fall day. Tim rolls out of bed to birds singing and the sun shining . He hates it. Hates the sun and the birds and beautiful fucking sky. He’d asked Art for a personal the day before and Art had given it to him with a gentle paternal look, which is odd coming from Art. He’d almost been irritated by the gesture of obvious concern but decided against combatting it, he’s learned to pick his battles. So he takes his time this morning, Ted’s trial isn’t until three so he has plenty of hours to spare. He gets up late, goes for a run, showers and drinks a mug of pitch black coffee while picking at a bowl of off brand cheerio’s. He drives to the courthouse in silence, resenting the sun and sky and every person walking down the street with a smile on their face with a deep sullen passion. He pulls into the nearly empty parking lot outside the court house and sits, staring at his face in the rear view mirror. His eyes look tired, more then anything else and Tim doesn’t want to go to this trial. Doesn’t want to sit on a hard wooden bench and watch Ted Billings lie the rest of his life away. Doesn’t want to listen to the gavel fall, or see the look of indifferent boredom on the judge’s face. All he wants is to drive back to his house and curl up under his covers and sleep the day away. He doesn’t though. He just adjusts the collar of his shirt, takes a deep breath, and steps out of the car. Tim is a big kid, and that means doing things he doesn’t want to do. As he walks through the dusty muffled hallways he thinks about how there’s no reason for him to be here, he doesn’t owe this man anything. The urge to run at the door is strong and it takes Tim all the self-discipline his years in the army pounded into him not to turn tail.

As Tim sits in the wooden benches he thinks they’re reminiscent of the pews in the church his mother used to drag him to every Sunday in the years before she died. There’s not much difference between a church and a courtroom Tim muses, here is where people’s secrets are laid bare. Where judgment and punishment are doled out, the guilty and the innocent are separated like wheat from the chaff. And just like church sometimes the innocent suffer and the sinners walk free, God isn’t fair and neither is justice. Church never did his mother much good, and the law isn’t going to save Ted Billings either.The irony of it doesn't fail to escape Tim and he laughs bitterly to himself that the things he always clung to for salvation are the ones that turn around and stab him in the back As Ted walks in, dressed in a worn but neat suit with his hair slicked back and a look of acceptance on his face Tim thinks maybe he’s here because he owes it to himself. 

The trial is a short one, Ted’s already submitted a signed confession so it’s more of a formality then anything else. The charges are read out by a man with a flat nasal voice and Ted sits through it all with that same look of calm acceptance, like he’s already made his peace with this. Tim is the only one in the rows of wooden benches, the sole audience member here to witness this sad play. Will isn’t here, and Tim is unsurprised. He’s angry, but more then that he’s sad. Sad because Ted has lived a good long life and there’s no one to show for it. Sad because he met him three days ago and he’s the only one who cared enough to show up.

“Mr. Billings, you are sentenced to 5 years in Blackburn Correctional Facility for the possession of three unregistered fire arms as a registered felon. You have 72 hours to turn yourself in.”

The gavel falls, the sound echoes through the empty chamber like a gunshot and just like that it’s over. Just like that Ted is condemned and Will is saved and the unfairness of it all makes Tim blood boil. Ted stands slowly, shaking hands with his lawyer and murmuring something quietly to him. Tim sits, waiting, cold and unmoving as the judge shuffles his papers and leaves, the lawyer packs up and disappears. Eventually the room is empty except for him and Billings. Tim stands, and Billings walks over to him.

“You could have still told the truth.”

Ted sighs, and shakes his head a little sadly. 

“You and I both know that’s not true, Tim.” 

Tim doesn’t remember telling Billings his name. But he feels the weight in it, and maybe it’s appropriate that Ted is finally using it here and now.

“I appreciate you coming. It means a lot.”

Tim shrugs numbly, replies in a flat voice.

“It was the right thing do to.”

"Maybe so, but you didn't have to do it."

Tim shrugs again, suddenly uncomfortable with the earnestness in Billings voice. 

“Tim, I need to ask you a favor.”  
  
Tim knows what it’s going to be before Ted asks, and it makes him feel sick and angry and resigned all at once 

“Look after Will for me? Keep him an eye on him since I can’t. I know it’s a lot to ask but I’ll sleep easier knowing he has a good man to keep him in line.” 

Tim wants to scream that it is a lot to ask, that it isn’t his responsibility to look after some punk who doesn’t even bother to come to his own grandfathers trial. He wants to scream and shout and rail against the unfairness of the whole situation but he takes all his anger and makes it small and hard and cold and stores it in the empty space beneath his heart and between his lungs and takes a moment to really look into Billings eyes. He sees a man who truly loves his grandson, who truly cares for him and maybe the reason this makes him so angry is he’s never had anybody love him like this. Tim thinks about what his childhood would have looked like if Ted Billings had been in it. And so maybe the reason he’s angry is at it’s core jealousy and when he sets that aside he sees the beauty in what Billings is doing so he doesn’t scream or shout or spit he just looks Billings in the eye and says

“I will. I’ll look after him.”

And however much he hates it Tim means what he says. Billings smiles gentle and sad and reaches out his hand, Tim shakes it and in it is a promise. Billings gives him discerning look, and Tim feels like his eyes are stripping him bare and looking deeper then the icy mask he has on his face.

“I believe you. And son, don’t forget to look after yourself to. You tried your best to help me, try that hard to help yourself."

With that Billings turns away and walks out of the courtroom, a solitary figure in somber black and Tim watches him go with an immutable sense of loss and sadness, that something which was just beginning to grow has died. Like a baby born still and cold Tim grieves for something which he never had a chance to love. For a long while he stands in the cavernous empty court room and as he stands there the sadness melts away into a rage which settles deep in Tim’s bones and burns low and fierce and red hot. All Tim’s wanted from his life is to do good, like if he does enough maybe he can make up for the wrong he’s done and the blood on his hands. It’s why he’d become a Marshal, to put the skills he’d learned to use for something other then killing. To put the bad guys behind bars and save people and for a while it had been easy because right had been right and wrong had been wrong and Tim knew where he stood, knew what to do. But now a good man is going to prison and Tim is standing by and watching it, is doing nothing to stop it and his carefully balanced perception has been upturned and it makes him angry. It makes him angry that he can do nothing, and a familiar feeling of helplessness and hopelessness chokes him.

Striding out the courtroom and down the halls he pulls the door to his truck open and climbs in, slamming it behind him. Then he drives straight for the bar by his house. He parks outside, and if it’s a little outside the lines well that’s just to damn bad. He walks in, pushing the door a little to hard and sits down at the bar. Jake’s on and walks over to him, giving him an appraising glance. Tim doesn’t look him in the eyes, staring somewhere beyond his left shoulder.

“shot of jack please.”

It’s short and terse and Tim is surprised when Jake just shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“I’m not serving you alcohol when you got that look on your face.”

Tim just stares at him, shocked. Even on his worst days Jake hasn’t refused to serve him. Maybe he cuts him off early, starts serving water instead of whiskey but he’s never flat out refused. Jake continues, not waiting for Tim to reply.

“I’ve seen guys come in with that look on their face before, and they’re only looking for one thing: a fight. So if you want to talk you’re welcome to stay, but I’m not going to let you drink.”

Tim sits there for a second, he knows Jake is offering him a way out. He could step off the road he’s going down right now and sit here and talk to Jake and that would be okay. And he thinks about it, he really does but the image of Ted Billings somber bowed shoulders flashes through his mind, Will’s furious red face firing a bullet past his nose and the anger is still there and he’s not strong enough to fight it. So he gets up and leaves without a word.

Tim drives, out of Lexington and keeps driving till he hits the next city over. Drives till nobody will know his name. Parks outside the first dive bar he sees, the type of place they’ll serve you if you look like you’re gonna hit somebody or not. He walks in, orders a drink and sits himself in a corner booth ignoring the stares. He sticks out like a sore thumb in this dimly lit bar, in his light blue button down and khaki pants. The rest of the occupants are all big burly biker types, they probably have enough ink between the lot of them to write out the holy bible three times and their stares straddle the line between curious and downright unfriendly. If he wants a fight he’s come to the right place. It doesn’t take long either, he’s been drinking for about half an hour when he hears a throat clear and glances up from his drink to see a man who looks to be 40 pounds heavier and half a brain short of Tim standing in front of him.

“You’re sittin’ at my table.”

Tim shrugs, gestures around the room.

“Lots of other places to sit.”

The man chuckles, says something to one of his friends. Turns back to Tim and crosses his arms with a distinctly threatening air.

“I can see that, but this is my table. I would move if I were you. Or I’ll make you move.”

Tim sighs and shrugs, throws back the last of his whiskey. Nobody could say this guy wasn’t just asking for it. With a roll of his neck he stands and steps out of the booth. The man grins and it’s obvious he thinks he’s won.

“I knew you didn’t have a pair of ba-”

He doesn’t get to finish his insult because Tim pulls back and lands a solid right hook on his jaw. He stumbles back and Tim vaguely wonders if the ground will shake when he hits the ground. He never gets to find out because his two equally large and dumb looking friends manage to catch him. Tim doesn’t wait for him to recover, launches at him again this time aiming for the nose and he smiles a little bit when he feels something snap. They trade blows for a little while, and Tim mostly has the upper hand. He caught the other man off guard and now he isn’t expecting the level of ferocity Tim is showing. Fueled by alcohol and a deep simmering rage Tim manages to land more punches then he takes, and like everything in life he’s winning until he isn’t. Military training or no Tim is drunk, alone, and probably half the total weight of asshole #1 and his two friends combined. One grabs him from behind, locking him in strong grip while the other helps asshole #1 to his feet. He wipes blood of his face and his expression is an ugly one when he lands a heavy blow on Tim’s stomach. It’s at this point the bartender steps in 

“Now you gentleman are welcome to continue your fight but it will be outside the premises of this establishment.” 

His statement is backed up by a very convincing shotgun pointed in their direction. The man behind Tim, who he decides to call asshole #2 carefully releases him, hands in the air. Tim shakes himself off, running a hand across his mouth and shoots a glare at the asshole #1 and co. before heading for the door. He can hear heavy footsteps behind him and knows this fight is not over. He makes a point not to look over his shoulder, keeps his eyes focused straight ahead. Once he’s outside he hears a gruff voice call out.

“Hey, this ain’t finished dick.”

He stops, but doesn’t turn around. Waits till he hears someone come up right behind him before he spins and kicks the man behind him right in the nuts. You don’t grow up as small and skinny as Tim without learning to fight dirty. He crumples to the ground, hands to his crotch and groaning. The victory is short lived as his entourage steps in after him. Tim puts up a good fight but he’s still outnumbered and soon he finds his arms wrestled behind his back and then he’s unceremoniously dragged into the alley beside the bar. By this time asshole #1 has recovered from Tim’s low blow and he stands before him with a look of pure hatred on his face. Tim is satisfied to see that his nose is indeed broken, and one of eyes is already beginning to blacken. Unfortunately Tim thinks, as the man reaches down and picks up a long piece of board lying on the dirty pavement, he’s probably going to look much worse before the night is over. The man smiles, and it’s a not a nice one as he lifts the length of wood over his head. Tim closes his eyes, bracing himself for the blow but it never comes. Instead someone’s voice echoes

“I would put that down now if I were you.”  
  
The voice sounds suspiciously like Raylan’s and for a second Tim’s sure he’s hallucinating because why would Raylan be here in this dingy dark alley outside an equally dingy bar in a city two counties over from Lexington. But the voice comes again and when Tim opens his eyes it is indeed Raylan he sees standing at the end of the alley with a practiced look of calm on his face.

“Now, I’m sure whatever disagreement you have with Mr. Gutterson here is completely justified, I work with the guy and I understand the occasional violent urge, but I think he’s had enough.”

The man glances at Tim, then back at Raylan looking as confused as Tim feels and it takes a few seconds for his expression to settle on anger once again.

“Keep walkin, this ain’t none of your goddamn business.”

Raylan sighs, takes a few steps in and moves his jacket to the side, making the gun on his hip very clear.

“Unfortunately this is my business as that’s my coworker you’re laying into there. Now, before I have to arrest you for assault on a federal agent I would skedaddle.”  
  
The two men behind Tim exchange a few panicked whispers before they let him go and run, leaving Tim to drop ungracefully to the ground. Asshole #1 takes a second longer and one last look at Raylan’s glock before he too decides its not worth it and walks away, although not without one last glare and a middle finger pointed in Tim’s direction. Tim rolls onto his back, groaning a little as bruised muscles pull. Raylan walks over, offers him a hand up. Tim takes it and lets the other man pull him to his feet.

“Think you can make it back to the car Sugar Ray?”

Tim nods, sniffing and rubbing some of the now drying blood off of his face. A few shaky steps proves him wrong and Raylan sighs, looping an arm under Tim’s armpit and grabbing hold of his wrist. Tim’s to drunk and in a little too much pain to protest and lets Raylan help him along.

“So, looks like your havin’ a good night?"

Tim spits on the pavement and replies conversationally

“Fuck you Raylan.”

Raylan just smirks.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach to pick on people your own size.”

Tim laughs and it’s empty of humor.

“My mom wasn’t around long to teach me much of anything and my dad, well lets just say he never seemed to believe in that particular life lesson.”          

Raylan doesn’t reply for a moment and Tim takes the opportunity to ask the question that’s been bugging him.

“How’d you find me anyways?”  
“Your friend Jake called, said you just left his bar with a mean look in your eyes. I got a trace on your phone, figured you’d be off getting yourself into trouble.”

Tim’s surprised that Raylan actually cared enough to figure out where he was and come get him, not that he’s not grateful. He should thank Raylan for saving him from a trip to the hospital but he’s a little belligerent and humiliated so what comes out instead is

“I didn’t need help, I was handling the situation.”

Raylan full on laughs now, and it annoys Tim.

“Oh yeah, so you call being dragged into an alley by three guys and then being beaten with a two by four handling the situation.”

Before Tim can retort they reach the car. Raylan props Tim up against the side door before digging his car keys out of his pocket. Opening the door he moves to help Tim in but he shakes Raylan’s hands off

“I can get in the car myself I’m not an invalid.”

Raylan throws his hands up in a submissive gesture.

“Alright tough guy, suit yourself.”

Tim lowers himself gingerly into the seat and tries not to wince. As Raylan drives away from the bar he lets his head fall against the window and watches the scenery speed by.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep on dreaming, don't stop breathing, fight those demons  
> Sell your soul, not your whole self  
> If they see it when you're sleeping, make them leave it  
> And I can't even see if it's all there anymore
> 
> -Afraid by The Neighborhood

The ride is silent till they reach the freeway and then Raylan finally asks 

“Now what induced you to drive two counties over and pick a fight with three guys at least twice your size each? Did the military not drum any kind of survival instinct into you?” 

Tim doesn’t lift his head from the window as he replies

“I didn’t pick a fight. Those assholes started it.”

Raylan rolls his eyes,

“Okay, that’s debatable but sure, they started it. My question still stands.”

Tim shrugs, or at least attempts to. It comes out looking a bit pathetic.

“Ted Billings.”

Raylan searches his memory for any mention of a Ted Billings and all he can remember his Tim texting him asking him to look up his number a few days ago. He goes to prod Tim more about it and finds that the younger man has fallen asleep, head lolling limply against the window. Raylan’s never had the chance to see Tim sleep before, even on long stake outs when Raylan himself has nodded off Tim has always been alert and awake. Maybe it’s a product from his time overseas, where nodding off could mean a bullet in you or your buddy, maybe Tim just doesn’t need to sleep like the rest of them. Whatever the reason the is the first Raylan’s seen his co worker sleep and he’s surprised at the years it strips from the mans face. Even when Tim seems relaxed there’s something hard to his face, something haunted in his eyes. He’s not yet thirty but he carries himself as a man much older then that. And Raylan figures with the things Tim’s seen he deserves those years. Raylan’s no stranger to death and horror, understands what it’s like to carry that weight on your soul. Tim sleeping has a look that could pass for innocence on his face, and even with the bruises and bloody lip Raylan can almost imagine Tim as a child still hopeful and bright and unbroken by the world.

  
They’re about 20 minutes from Lexington when Tim starts to twist and turn next to Raylan. His faces clouds over, lips pulled into a frown and he mutters things soft and low underneath his breath. Raylan strains his ears but he can’t make out what Tim’s saying. Whatever he’s dreaming, it’s not pleasant. Raylan’s tempted to wake him up, but he figures he’s more likely to get a fist to the face then anything else for his troubles. Luckily for him Tim shakes himself awake as Raylan pulls up in front of his house. He wakes suddenly, eyes flying open and breathing suddenly harsh and quick. Raylan lets him sit for a moment and bring himself back from wherever his dreams took him. Tim eyes sharpen and focus and he looks out the window, realizing where he is. He mumbles a thanks to Raylan and starts to pull open the door but Raylan stops him. 

“Not this time pal. I think I’ll be walking you to your door today.”

Tim complains a little but Raylan ignores him. Tim’s managed to pull himself out of the car by the time Raylan’s got out himself out and walked around the hood and is leaning precariously against the open door. Raylan carefully shuts the door and once again wraps his arm around Tim’s shoulder, half dragging him up to his door. Once there he props him up against the side of his house.

“Keys?”  
  
Tim gestures vaguely to his left jacket pocket and it only takes Raylan a second of rummaging to produce them. He unlocks the door and then grabs Tim again, helping him inside. Throwing the keys on the little table by the door Raylan maneuvers Tim into his living room and onto the couch. Tim collapses like a puppet with his strings cut, eyes already falling shut again and Raylan has to shake him a little to keep him awake.

“Ah ah ah, not yet.”

Leaving Tim for a second Raylan walks back towards the kitchen and opens Tim’s cupboards till he finds a glass and then fills it with water from the sink. Walking back to the living room he sets it on the low coffee table. Tim is curled up on the couch, eyes half lidded and bleary.

“Okay, try to drink some of this at some point alright?”

It’s impossible to tell if Tim heard that, or if he did he understood it but Raylan figures he tried. Walking around the table he takes off Tim’s shoes and tosses them over by the door, and then throws the blanket draped across the back of the couch across Tim’s thin frame. Standing back he sighs, it’s not much but it’ll have to do. With one last look at the sleeping deputy Raylan heads for the door.

 

* * *

 

It’s not quite late enough to call the work day quits so Raylan heads back to the office. He gets about 10 minutes into a report before curiosity gets the best of him. Standing he walks over to Rachel’s desk and perches on the side of it. Rachel doesn’t look up from whatever she’s working on on her computer, just asks in a slightly exasperated voice

“Yes Raylan, what is it?”  
  
“The name Ted Billings mean anything to you?”

This gets her to look up, and there’s an expression of something that could be concern on her face. Cautiously she replies

“Maybe. Why do you ask?”

Raylan shrugs a little.

“Well, Tim managed to get himself into a bar fight a few counties over today and when I asked what sparked the incident all he gave me was that name.”

Rachel swears and it’s quite obvious that she knows, or at least knows of Billings. She’s silent for a moment, her face torn but then she sighs and pushes back her chair some internal conflict resolved.

“A couple days ago Tim and I went to deliver a court summons to Ted Billings. When we arrived on the property his grandson Will decided to fire a shot at us. We restrained him, and he started to say some less then polite things and Tim…Tim just lost it. Started hitting the kid, I had to pull him off. It was like he wasn’t even there Raylan, I’ve never seen Tim angry like that. Billings showed up right after and it was pretty obvious Tim liked the guy. As far as I know Ted Billings court date was today.”

Raylan nods slowly, chewing on the new information.

“Is Tim okay?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s sleeping it off on his couch. I managed to find him before he could to do much damage to himself, or anyone else for that matter.”

Rachel sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I knew this thing with Billings was going to go to shit. He made me promise not tell anyone, should have known not to trust him.”

Raylan gives her a look.

“Now don’t go blaming yourself for this. Tim’s a big boy, he can make his own choices.”

Rachel nods.

“I guess you’re right. I still worry about him though. He can be such a stubborn idiot sometimes.”  
  
Raylan smirks a little

“Haven’t you ever met a man before Rachel?”

She snorts,

“Alright, you have a point. Now don’t you have work to do or something?"

Raylan gets up from the edge of her desk and starts to walk away when he stops short and swears. Rachel looks up from her work with a questioning expression.

“What is it?”

Raylan turns, rubs at his forehead.

“Tim’s truck is still at the bar. I promised him I’d pick it up.”  
  
Rachel gives him a look like she knows what’s coming.

“No way, I’m off soon and I’m going home to drink wine and take a bath. You are not roping me into this Raylan.”

Raylan puts on his best puppy dog expression,

“Aw come one Rachel, this isn’t for me it’s for Tim. You want to help him out don’t you?”

Rachel sighs and Raylan knows he’s won. Rachel looks up and glares at him

“You owe me big time for this.”

* * *

 

After work Raylan stands leaning on his car, waiting for Rachel. As they were walking out the door she got a call she had to take, putting the phone to her ear and gesturing Raylan ahead with a flick of her wrist. As he waits he stares at the beautiful blue sky, the slowly sinking sun and remembers the words Jake had said over the phone, sharp and worried. 

_I really think he’s going to get himself hurt._

Raylan doesn’t think anybody could hurt Tim as much as Tim is hurting himself, though. And as much as he wants to help he’s not really sure he knows how.

Rachel steps out of the building, slipping her cell into her pocket.

“All right, ready to go?”  
  
Raylan nods, pushing himself up and unlocking the door. They chat for a little while about the felon Rachel’s been chasing for a few weeks now and Raylan promises he’ll ask around in Harlan before they eventually lapse into silence. Rachel stares out the window for a long while, chewing on her lower lip in an absent minded gesture before she breaks it.

“I’ve only seen him like this once before.”

Raylan glances over, questioning look on his face.

“A few months after he started working here he was on an op with SOG, some guy who just got out of prison murdered his ex wife and kidnapped their five year old son. The whole thing was a mess, team leader was incompetent and the location was bad. Tim couldn’t get an angle on the guy and he ended up killing the kid and then himself before Tim could take the shot.”

Raylan winces, something like that could mess up the best of men. And Tim being Tim he probably took the whole thing to be his fault. Rachel confirms this suspicion. 

“He blamed himself, everybody could tell. Started drinking more, coming in late or not at all. He was a mess. Art cut him some slack because he knew what happened but eventually he called Tim in to his office. I don’t know what he said to him but after that Tim took a week off, left town, and when he came back it was like nothing ever happened.”

“Think a week off is goin’ to do him any good this time round?” 

Rachel shrugs, looks out the window again.

“Honestly, I’m not sure.”

When they arrive outside the seedy little bar Raylan found Tim in Rachel gives it a less then impressed look.

“He was really drinking here?"

Raylan gets out and stretches his legs.

“I don’t really think he cared where he was drinking.”

Rachel nods, conceding.

“Okay, do you have Tim’s keys? I’ll drive his truck back.”

Raylan reaches into his pocket slowly, but as he’s pulling out the keys he makes a decision. He throws Rachel his own instead of Tim’s. She looks at them, a little confused.

“You take mine. I’ll drive back to Tim’s, I want to make sure he hasn’t asphyxiated on his own vomit or something.”

Rachel grins a little, raises an eyebrow as she walks to Raylan’s car.

“Aw, you feeling a little concerned Raylan?”

He shakes his head, a grin on his own face.

“Naw, it’s just that I’m the last one to see him and if he dies I don’t want no fingers pointing at me.”

 

* * *

 

When he lets himself into Tim’s house with the spare key he finds hidden rather unimaginatively under the door mat the lights are still off and the place is quiet. Walking into the living room however he finds Tim sitting on the couch, head in his hands and blanket tossed and rumpled on the floor. The glass of water is untouched, but there’s a fifth of vodka on the table with about a third gone. Tim doesn’t look up when Raylan walks in, just keeps staring at the ground silent and still. Raylan leans against the door frame, crosses his arm and waits. When it’s clear Tim isn’t going to offer anything up he caves and speaks. 

“Is this carpet extremely interesting or am I missing something?”

Tim doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t make any indication that he’s heard Raylan. Raylan opens his mouth to make another comment, something to draw Tim out of the shell he’s in. It turns out he doesn’t have to. Tim speaks, eyes still focused on the ground.

“I thought it would make me feel something, feel better.”  
  
“What, gettin’ the shit kicked out of you?”

Tim shakes his head, the movement barely visible.

“Whenever my dad was upset he’d just beat the crap out of me. Figured I’d give it a try.”

Raylan knows Tim didn’t have a particularly idyllic childhood, but the truth of it’s never been laid out bare before. Now it is though, and the blunt words hang between them like choking cigarette smoke. Raylan realizes there’s a lot of things he’s never quite known about Tim. Where he grew up, what his parents names are, if he has any siblings. In fact there’s very little Raylan does know for sure about Tim other then he served in Afghanistan, he has terrible handwriting and an unexplainable fear of small dogs, and he’s a very very good shot. Tim’s an intensely private person, but he keeps his secrets so smoothly that it’s hard to realize he’s keeping anything hidden at all. Ask him about anything other then work and he slyly deflects it with another question or an answer that doesn’t really answer anything at all.

“So, did it help?”

Tim doesn’t reply. Raylan’s starting to learn that conversations with Tim are more about what’s not said then what is. He waits, stares at the ceiling, the wall, the ugly beige of the carpet. Eventually his patience is rewarded. Tim finally looks up and when he does his face is lined with grief and his eyes are haggard. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper on the wind and Raylan almost leans it to hear it.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”

It’s an admission, broken and small and Raylan is almost surprised by it’s appearance, surprised Tim trusts him enough to make it. Then again he’s surprised he’s standing here in Tim’s small house when he could be at home with his feet up and a beer in his hands. Raylan’s gotten used to being surprised. He looks half afraid, like he’s expecting Raylan to laugh or turn or run. Raylan wonders how many people have to make him look that way. He stays, though leaning against the bowed wood. Stays and listens. Tim doesn’t seem to be looking for an answer, stares somewhere into the distance at something Raylan can’t see.

“You know, those weren’t even Ted Billing’s guns they found in his shed.”

Raylan frowns, forehead creasing.

“Whose were they?"

“His grandson Will’s.”

Raylan nods, slowly, starting to understand. Tim continues on, words slow and slurred but deliberate

“Today, I watched an innocent man lie to protect a kid who’s going to go ahead and waste the gift he was given. I sat and I watched and I did nothing.”

Tim looks torn, face almost childlike in it’s uncertainty. Raylan stands, walks forward towards Tim and sits on the arm chair opposite him, every move is slow and careful like he’s approaching a frightened animal because he can sense he’s getting close to a part of Tim he’s never seen before, a part of Tim buried under miles and miles of repression and rigid self control. He still doesn’t talk, afraid if he says something he’ll break the spell and Tim will retreat into his shell, as hardened and cold as ever. 

“You know what I promised him, Raylan? You know what I looked right in his goddamn eyes and swore to him?”

Raylan shakes his head.

“I told him I’d look after his grand son. The guy who tried to shoot me three days ago, who disrespected Rachel, who didn’t bother to show up to his own goddamn grandfather’s trial as he lies for him. That’s who I swore to protect.”

“And will you?”

The words spill from Raylan’s mouth before he can stop them, loud and abrupt he regrets them as soon as he sees the look on Tim’s face somewhere between shocked and offended.  

“Of course.”

And he doesn’t need to say anymore then that because the two words are so intent and earnest there is no doubt on Tim’s face of the truth of them. And Raylan guesses it’s a silly question, because if anything Tim is an honorable man, a good man and when he says something he means it with every part of him. He might have a lot issues but he would never lie, not about something like this. For better or for worse Tim will look out for this boy until one of them dies.  
  
When Raylan looks back to Tim his eyes are unfocused and bleary, lost in a haze that Raylan doesn’t think he can reach through. So he doesn’t try. Just walks over and pulls him up from the couch. Tim doesn’t resist, limp and heavy like corpse. Realizing he has no idea where he’s going Raylan nudges Tim with his hip gently.

“Hey, where’s your bedroom?”

Tim laughs a little and he can feel the vibrations of it echo up his chest from where his side rests against Tim’s.

“Up the stairs. At least buy me dinner first Raylan, I thought you were a gentleman.”

The words are slurred and nearly unintelligible but Raylan laughs all the same. He drags Tim’s nearly unconscious body up the stairs and down the hall and into bed, throwing the covers over him loosely. Hitting the light and shutting the door Raylan leaves him to his dreams (or nightmares) and pads back down the creaky flight of stairs. As he walks through Tim’s house to the front door he reflects on the fact that this is the first time he’s ever been inside Tim’s home. It’s neat and orderly and impersonal, hell Raylan’s lived in a motel before and even his room there seemed more homey then Tim’s place. Everything has a purpose and a place and any frippery or other cosmetic garnish is absent. There are no family portraits or vacation snapshots hanging on the walls, no magazines or flower vases or fancy rugs. It seems lonely, Raylan thinks, to live alone here in this empty grey house. Maybe he they should all pitch in to get Tim a dog, something with a pulse that would look happy when he came home. On an impulse he double’s back into Tim’s kitchen, opening the fridge door and giving the insides a glance. It’s mostly empty, a carton of take out sits on the shelves and there are a few sad bottles of condiments and an expired half gallon of milk in the side door and a six pack of beer. It’s more pathetic then Raylan’s refrigerator in college when he was surviving off of top ramen and lunch meats. Raylan tosses the milk in the trash as a favor. Making sure to leave the keys to Tim’s truck on the table he steps out and locks the front door behind him, slipping the spare key back under the door mat and making a note to tell Tim to find a better place to hide it. As he sits on the front porch stairs and waits for a taxi Raylan thinks about how this is the second time this week he’s had to take a thoroughly intoxicated Tim home, and he doesn’t like the thought.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there's a God above  
> But all I've ever learned from love  
> Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya  
> And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
> It's not somebody who's seen the light  
> It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
> 
> -Hallelujah by Brandi Carlisle

Tim wakes up the next morning to an aching in every part of his body. He groans and winces, moving slowly and carefully so as not to aggravate bruised flesh. It takes him a moment to sit up, and when he does he stays still for a moment, breathing lightly and trying to piece together last night. The last clear thing he remembers is Raylan depositing him on his couch, and then nothing but blurry and disjointed moments. This is definitely his bed though, and Tim has no recollection of how he got here. He’s still in all his clothes from yesterday too, the only things missing are his shoes. Shaking his head slightly and leaving trying to remember the details of the previous night to another time Tim drags himself to his feet and walks to the bathroom.

He flips on the shower, the pipes in this house are a bit old and it takes time for the water to get hot. As the shower runs he does a once over of his face in the mirror. He looks like a mess, his lower lip is split and swollen, he has a purple blue bruise along the curve of his right cheekbone and there’s a fairly deep cut just above his eyebrow that drips loops of dried blood down the side of his face. When he pulls of his shirt it reveals even more vivid bruising along his ribs. He pokes a cautious finger at the tender skin, wincing a little, and runs a hand along the plane of his chest checking for breaks or fractures. Satisfied he’s mostly in one piece he quickly disrobes and hops in the shower. The waters almost too hot for comfort and Tim let’s it pound down on his sore frame, working out knots and loosening sore muscles. He closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the cool tile of his bathroom wall and lets hot water beat against his neck and run down his back. He doesn’t know how long he stands in the shower but eventually the water starts to cool and he takes it as a sign that it’s been too long. He steps out and towels himself dry, taking extra care with his ribs. He dresses, which takes more time then it should and then heads downstairs. Walking over to his pantry he pulls a box of cereal out of the cupboard and pours himself a bowl, but when he opens the fridge his milk has disappeared. He closes his eyes for a moment, feels his fingers tighten around the cold metal of his spoon, counts to ten, and then eats his cereal dry. By the time he gets to work he’s in a thoroughly bad mood. His head hurts, his face hurts, his ribs hurt, just about anything that can ache does and he just wants to down a few ibuprofen and get back into bed. There’s quite a few questioning glances thrown in his direction as he walks towards his desk and he does his best to ignore them. He’s just sitting down when Art’s voice booms out,

“My office now Tim.”

He lets out a long suffering sigh, throwing a look to the heavens before he stands and walks slowly over to Art’s office. He feels a bit like he’s back in high school, caught tussling behind the bleachers again and sent to the principals office. Everything feels the same, the bruises on his face, the slightly paternal and exasperated look on Art’s face, the poorly muffled whispers as he makes his way across the room. Hell, the only difference between the marshal’s office and high school is here they carry loaded weapons and occasionally get to shoot people. He enters slowly and shuts the door behind him preemptively, tries to arrange his features into something appropriately recalcitrant. Art’s sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. He sniffs, rubs at his chin, looks Tim up and down letting his eyes drag across his colorful face.

“Y’know, Raylan’s supposed to be the one who goes on vacation and comes back lookin’ like he got hit by a train.”

Tim shrugs a little, noncommittal. Art waits for more and when it’s clear it’s not coming he leans forward in his chair gestures widely at Tim’s face.

“Want to tell me how that all happened?”

Tim shrugs again, keeping his eyes directed somewhere over Art’s left shoulder.

“Not really.”

Art sighs, rubs at his face again. Tim feels a little bad at the tired look on his face, but if he told Art he was two counties over picking fights Art would probably ask him why he was two counties over picking fights and Tim doesn’t even know if he really has an answer for that. So he stares over Art’s shoulder and Art sighs and Tim waits.

“Do I need to be concerned about your behavior Tim?”

He shifts where he stands, resisting the urge to bolt and run from this conversation. He hates this, hates standing here and looking at Art’s worried eyes and worried face. He hates admitting something might be wrong, because Tim builds his life around handling. He handles things, and if that requires getting in the occasional fight then so be it. This is just how Tim copes, and it’s not a good or bad thing in his opinion, it’s just how things are. Some people knit, some people box, Tim drinks maybe a little too much and picks fights and that’s neither here nor there. Either way, he’s coping, and he doesn’t need people to tell him it’s not healthy. So he avoids Art’s gaze when he tries to look into his eyes and shifts in place and bites the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I’m fine.”

And he’s said the words so many times now they’ve ceased to sound like anything at all, meaningless sounds that trip off his tongue and hang in the air. He’s said them so many times they sound like a lie even when he’s telling the truth. Or maybe they’ve just always been a falsehood, maybe Tim’s never been fine, maybe he won’t ever be. But he’ll cope, he’ll handle things, and that’s close enough to fine for him. Art stares him down for a little longer, eyes half squinted and suspicious like he can tell Tim’s full of bullshit. Tim keeps his face arranged into neutral, and eventually Art sighs.

“All right then. Get yourself gone.”

Tim gives him a short nod and then escapes back to the relative privacy of his own desk.

* * *

 

It was Thursday morning when Tim’s phone rang, flashing an unknown number. He had been chatting with Raylan about the pros and cons of the Beretta 71 as a service weapon when he got the call, and he held up a finger gesturing that he had to take it. Spinning away slightly he hit answer button and put the phone to his ear.

“Is this Deputy Tim Gutterson?”

He replies in the affirmative, confused.

“This is Sergeant Platt from Lexington PD. Just a courtesy call to let you now that Will Billings got brought in a little while ago for vandalism and resisting arrest.”

Tim can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on and he takes a deep breath before he replies.

“Thanks for the heads up, I’ll be right down.”

When he hangs up the first things he says is

“You have to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Raylan stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“Not good news I’m guessing.”

Tim shakes his head, already pulling his jacket on and starting to stand.

“Will Billings just got brought in for vandalism. And since I somehow managed to make him my problem I now have to go deal with it.”

As Tim grabs his keys and heads for the door he can hear Raylan call after him

“Have fun, play nice!”

It had been such a good couple of days, Tim thinks as he drives towards the downtown station of the Lexington Police Department. Apart from a few frustrating calls from Wyatt things had been uneventful, maybe a little boring even but Tim was almost grateful for the monotony. Should have realized it was too good to last, nothing ever goes this well for long. He pulls up outside the station and parks, taking a moment to compose himself in the car before walking into the station. He heads up to the front desk and flashes his badge at the man who’s attending. He nods and points back further into the station.

“He’s in room three. Arresting officer is Jim Morris.”

Tim nods his thanks and heads back where the cop was pointing. There’s a uniformed officer standing by the room, arms crossed and face a mix of exasperation and annoyance. He turns when Tim walks up to him, shakes his hand.

“Caught him tagging the outside of a pawn store downtown. Looks like gang signs, little punk tried to run when he heard sirens.”

Tim nods and rubs at his temples, wishing for an aspirin.

“Alright, thanks for calling. Is it alright if I talk to him?”

Morris shrugs,

“Be my guest. Let me know when you’re done.”

* * *

 

Folks like to categorize things Tim realizes. You get out of your bed on the left side of your bed or the right, you pour milk first or cereal first. Good or bad, black or white, us and them. It’s comforting for people to be able to define things in terms of what they understand. Once they define you they can stamp a label and move on with the peace of mind that they know exactly who and what you are. Most people Tim’s known though live in shades of grey, somewhere in the between. People are like that, they tend not to follow anybody’s rules. He saw it in Afghanistan where he’d watch humans do terrible unspeakable things to each other and then turn around with an extra treat for the local dog. Sees it here in Kentucky in Boyd Crower, Raylan, even himself. It’s to easy to classify people as all good or all bad, to easy to forget that people can rape and murder and lie and turn around and be a damn good father. To easy to pretend the best men in the world don’t have their own regrets. And at the end of the day it’s all subjective anyways, what is good or bad? Some people might say all killing is bad but what if one death saves a hundred lives? Is it still evil then or is there a chance at salvation for all those with blood on their hands. Tim hopes so, because there’s so much blood on his own hands and sometimes the only thing that keeps him from drowning in it is the thought that it’s justified.

Tim thinks about all of this as he stares through the window of interrogation room three at the kid sitting handcuffed at the table inside. Thinks about good and bad and right and wrong and nothing is what he used to think it was anymore. With a last sigh he pushes open the door and walks in. Will looks up and seems a little shocked to see Tim walking in.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Tim sits down on the chair opposite Will.

“I’m lookin’ out for your ungrateful ass is what I’m doin.”

Will crosses his arms and looks away, forehead creasing and frown growing by the second.

“I don’t need you to look out for shit.”

“See? This is what I mean by ungrateful. A smile and a thank you would be the correct response here you know.”

Will leans across the table face stormy and petulant,

“Fuck. You.”

He annunciates each word carefully and slowly and Tim has to restrain himself from just getting up and leaving right then and there. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“Will, you’ve been gettin’ yourself in a lot of trouble lately. You understand that?”

Will shrugs, sniffs, and the gestures are so painfully familiar.

“So what?”

“So if you don’t change something you’re goin’ to end up goin’ to prison for a very long time. I’ve seen this a thousand times before Will, you pick this road things aren’t goin’ to end well for you.”

Will still doesn’t look at him, staring at the glass behind Tim’s head.

“So what’s it matter to you huh? Why do you give a fuck how things end for me?”

And the reason it all aches in a place deep inside of Tim is because as much as he hates Will, as much as he wants nothing to do with him he understands him. He understands him because Tim so easily could be him, because Tim was him. Just a kid who didn’t know what to do with all the anger inside him so he lashed out. He punched and kicked and screamed at the world around him because he just wanted someone to hurt like he hurt, because he felt like if he didn’t do something he might fracture on the inside in a way you can't come back from. So he doesn’t like Will but he knows him. Knows him like he knows himself. And hell, if he hadn’t joined the rangers who to say he wouldn’t be the one sitting in jail right now, whose to say he wouldn’t be dead. He doesn’t say that though, just says,

“Your grandpa asked me to look out for you, and I promised him I would.”

There’s a flash of something that could almost be pain, almost be regret on Will’s face before it disappears behind the iron shutters.

“Well I’m askin’ you to fuck off.”

He leans back and settles in his chair, arranges his handcuffed hands in front of him and pointedly ignores Tim. Tim knows he should give up now, give up and go home. There’s no shame in it he knows, he tried his best, he did what he could and Will obviously doesn’t want to change but something obstinate and bull headed in him refuses to let go, to let go of this boy. He failed Ted Billings, he’s not going to fail his grandson.

“I know this sounds like bullshit, I know you’ve probably heard it a million times before but I understand where you’re coming from. I really do.”

Will looks skeptical but Tim barrels on,

“Look, my mom died when I was 11 my dad used to beat the shit out of me. I get being angry okay. I spent most of my childhood being angry, hell I’m still angry but you can’t just let that consume you. It’s okay to be angry, but control it don’t let it eat you alive.”

Will still doesn’t look entirely convinced but at least he’s looking in Tim’s direction now.

“Like you controlled your fist into my face the other day?”

Tim has to smile wryly at that one.

“You caught me on a bad day. But trust me, life’s to short to spend it being pissed off all the time. You’re going to sit in prison and look back at the shit that got you in and realize none of it was worth anything in the end, and that’s not a place you want to be.”

Will nods uncertainly, and for the first time since Tim walked into the room he doesn’t look pissed off and Tim thinks that’s probably the best he’s going to get out of him. He leaves then, gets up and walks out and leaves Will to his uncertainty and his anger and hopes that maybe something he said meant something to the kid. He realizes thought it’s probably not going to do shit. Will’s probably going to get out and go right back to being angry and fucking shit up and there’s not much Tim could say or do to stop him but he tried, he goddamn tried and that’s the best that you can do some days. Try, and hope that it’s good enough in the end.

* * *

 

He’s in the car on the way back to the office when his phone rings for the second time. When he pulls it out of his pocket and checks caller ID he sees Darren Wyatt’s name flashing and has to resist the urge to pound his head against his steering wheel. Apparently today is going to be the day of unwanted phone calls. He answers and readies himself for more irritating bullshit. What he gets instead is unexpected. Wyatt sounds afraid, actually afraid. He’s talking fast and quiet and garbled and Tim struggles to hear the words.

“Hey, hey slow down I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

There’s a deep breath on the other end of the line and Wyatt starts again slower this time.

“I think somebody knows I’m here, I think they know I’m here.”

Tim swears, and pulls a U-turn heading for the safe house. Looks like he won’t be getting back to the office anytime soon.

“Okay, I’m heading your way sit tight.”

He pulls up outside the safe house and parks on the street hopping out of his truck and walking to the front door. He knocks on the door and hears shuffling inside before it opens. Wyatt’s tense face greets him. He gestures Tim in with the flick of his chin and scans the street behind him before closing the door. The inside of the house is dim, all the shades pulled despite the sun outside. Tim turns back to Wyatt

“So, what’s all this about?”

Wyatt wipes a hand across his mouth, sits on the worn tan couch.

“I was out at the grocery store, just buying some beer and I saw somebody from the gang I used to run with in the next fucking aisle. Nearly fucking shit myself man, I was this close to running right into the motherfucker.”

Wyatt holds up his hand, thumb and pointer finger a centimeter apart. Tim sighs, this day just keeps getting better and better.

“Are you sure you knew this guy? He wasn’t just somebody who looked similar or something?”

Wyatt shakes his head empathically, knee bouncing up and down.

“No, I know this face. It was Killa no doubt. Only reason he’d be in town is for me, Killa don’t got no business fucking around in Kentucky that’s for sure.”

Tim puts his hands in a placating gesture.

“Okay, I believe you. I’ll get some plainclothes to cover the street outside. Try and stay indoors for now, keep your head low. I’ll let local PD know to look out for this guy. There’s no way he knows where you are so don’t worry to much.”

And Tim does believe him, or at least believes the fear in his eyes. You don’t fake fear like that. It should make him happy to see Wyatt brought low, but it doesn’t, he just feels tired.

“Easy for you to say, don’t worry. You haven’t seen the shit they do to people who snitch it’s seriously fucked up. You get to go home and relax, this is my fucking life.”

Once and asshole always and asshole Tim muses dryly. You’d think a degree of politeness would be warranted with the guy who’s currently trying to keep your skeevy ass alive, but no, Wyatt fails to disappoint yet again. Tim doesn’t know why he expects anything anymore. He reassures Wyatt that he’s probably not going to die anytime soon once more and then escapes to his truck, calling in the request for plainclothes. Then he lets his head rest against the steering wheel, closes his eyes and shuts out the world and just breathes in and out. He gives himself a minute, a minute to just forget the rest of the world and forget Ted Billings sitting in prison and Will Billings sitting in jail and Darren Wyatt sitting on a shitty tan couch. For a minute he forgets, and then he sits up puts his truck in gear and drives back to work


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the fires, when the fires have surrounded you   
> And the whole wide world coming after you  
> I've got blood, I've got blood on my name
> 
> -Blood On My Name by The Brothers Bright

It’s Monday morning and Tim is thankfully on time. They’re all sitting in the big meeting room, listening as Art goes over the weeks business. 

“So two things to look out for this week. First is this guy,” 

Art says taking a glossy color mug shot of a sullen man in his mid thirties and pinning it to the board.

“Name’s Trevor Wilcox, also known as ‘killa’ in the fine city of Detroit. He was spotted in town on Friday afternoon by Tim’s new friend Wyatt who got a little nervous when he saw his old pal here in Lexington. As his name suggests he’s not so friendly. He handles enforcement for the Seven Mile Bloods and in all likelihood he’s in town for Wyatt so lets keep our eyes peeled for him.”

There’s a series of nods around the room and murmured affirmations. Art take a second photograph and puts it up, this one is a grainy photograph of a man who looks to be Hispanic in a t shirt and jeans, his face shaded with a worn baseball cap. 

“This is Hector Valdez better known as el scorpio. He’s works as a sicario for a cartel in Mexico, 23 confirmed kills under his belt and probably a few more the Mexican police don’t know about. He was flagged flying into Blue Grass early this morning and as far as we know he still in Lexington.”

Raylan speaks up now, bemused look on his face.

“Why does a Mexican cartel have any business in Lexington? Seems a little out of their way if you ask me.”

Art shrugs,

“Your guess is as good as mine. Lexington might just be a stopping point for Valdez on his way somewhere else or it might not, either way he’s someone to watch for.”

With that the meeting concludes, and people file out of the room. Tim though stays behind, thoughtfully chewing the tip of his pen and staring at the photo of Valdez. Art looks up from collecting his papers.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you Tim?”

He shrugs slowly.

“Not sure, just got a hunch. The cartel Valdez works for, do they run cocaine?”

Art nods

“Yes indeed, and quite a lot from what a hear. A real thorn in the FBI’s side.”

Tim thinks on that for a second before finally getting up, gears clicking in his head as pieces fall into place. He walks over to his desk and sits down, turning on his computer he searches for the Detroit PD gang and narcotics division and dials a number. Half an hour later he puts down the phone with a triumphant grin. Raylan walks over at that moment with a mug of coffee in his hand and sits down at his desk across from Tim.

“What’s got you smiling so wide? You win the lottery or somethin’?”  
  
Tim shakes his head, still grinning.

“Better.”

Raylan raises an eyebrow.

“So Valdez, we’re all wondering why the hell a cartel man like him is in Lexington of all places right?”

Raylan nods, taking a sip of his drink.

“Well the cartel he works for imports cocaine to the US, that’s their primary business. Got me thinking, one of the money-makers for the Bloods in Detroit is coke. So I call up Detroit PD do a little digging and finally get to one of the guys handling the Seven Mile Bloods, turns out they get their product from Valdez’s bosses, cocaine Wyatt got caught with probably came straight from Mexico.”

A look of understanding finally dawns on Raylan’s face and he sets down the mug, leaning in a little.

“So you think your guy Wyatt saw something that connects the cartel to Detroit and the Bloods, somethin’ they don’t want anyone to know. They sent Valdez here to bump off your witness.”

“Exactly, no-ones been able to figure out how the cartel’s been gettin’ coke across the border, maybe Wyatt knows. That’s pretty big incentive to get rid of him before he testifies. Anyways Valdez and that other guy Wilcox gettin’ here right around the same time, doesn’t seem like a coincidence if you ask me.”

Raylan nods, a grin spreading across his own face.

“Well, Tim, I think you might be on to something.”

* * *

 

The next day Tim wakes up with a sick feeling in his stomach. He dreamt about Sam Lowell again, dreamt about dead empty eyes and blood mixed with sand. A quick glance at red blinking numbers on his alarm reveal the time to be a little past 3:30. Tim squeezes his eyes shut and rolls over, burrowing deeper into his blankets and tries to go back to sleep but it lingers at the fringes of his mind and refuses to come. At four he gives up, throws his sheets off and gets up pulling on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and goes for a run. 

When he gets back it’s barely five, the sun is just starting to peak over the curve of the horizon and the sick feeling is still there. He showers and eats breakfast and dresses for work and the whole time he’s on edge. He used to get this feeling back in Afghanistan when his unit was making it’s way through particularly dangerous territory. This under lying sense of dread, like a radio playing static in the background it’s a constant and slight offness. Like feeling eyes on the back of your head, or when you have a pebble in your shoe you just can’t get rid off.

He drives to work with that same feeling, heavy and cold and foreboding. He keeps waiting for something to happen, keeps waiting for the bullets to start flying. They don’t come though, everything is perfectly normal and the dread just keeps building. He gets into work and looks around, everybody is quiet heads down and the quiet murmur of office chatter and the clacking nails on keyboards fills the room. He walks to his desk and sits rolling his shoulders uncomfortably.

Even as he gets to work filing reports, goes to lunch, makes himself a cup of coffee he’s waiting. Waiting for the sharp pop of automatic gun fire, waiting for the building to collapse around him, waiting for _something._ When it comes though its not something big and loud and catastrophic its just the ringing of a phone. Tim reaches out a hand slow and steady to answer it, and as he lifts it from the receiver and puts it to his ear he knows that this is what he’s been waiting for. He answers and his voice sounds disconnected and far away, he doesn’t recognize it as his own. The voice on the other end of his is rough and tired, a mirror image of his.

“Deputy Gutterson, this is Jim Morris with Lexington PD. I figured I should let you know Will Billings is dead.”

The words echo and bounce against the sides of his skull and it takes him a second to understand what they mean and when he does it feels like the floor has fallen out from under his feet. He feels numb and cold and so, so tired. When he replies all he can force out is one word.

“How?”

“Found him in his truck, two bullets to the back of his head. Looks like it was probably gang related, maybe territory beef. We already have a suspect in custody.”

Tim thinks about Ted Billings sitting in prison, think about an impersonal phone call with somebody to overworked and jaded to care about another kid who was to dumb to get out before he couldn’t and he knows he can’t let that happen. 

“Is it alright if I’m the one to tell his grandfather?”

“Go for it. I’m damn tired of letting people know their kids are dead, if you want to take that be my guest.”         

Tim thanks him and hangs up the phone, stares blankly at the words on the screen of the computer in front of him uncomprehendingly. He knows he needs to go, knows he should get up and walk out the door and get into his car but his body feels heavy and cold and he can’t seem to make it move. All he can see is Will Billings face, right before he left him in that interrogation room, still angry and bitter but maybe, maybe ready to change. Now he’s dead in a ditch and he’ll never get the chance. Raylan’s voice cuts through the cold fog that clouds his mind.

“Hey, you alright?”

He turns his head to look at Raylan, he’s staring at Tim with an expression somewhere between confusion and concern and he sounds genuine and open. Tim doesn’t know how to tell him that the death of a nobody kid who tried to shoot him on their first meeting just shattered him. Doesn’t know how to tell him he just failed at the one thing he should have succeeded at, doesn’t know how to say he’s not alright at all and he doesn’t know why. So he just says.

“Will Billings is dead.”

Raylan looks not quite unsurprised, running a hand through his slicked back hair.

“Well shit. I'm sorry Tim.”

Tim laughs, a short bitter noise. That pretty much sums it up. Then he finally forces himself up out of his chair collecting his keys and coat. Raylan watches him with a guarded look on his face.

“Where you headin’?”

“To let Billings know his grandson is dead.”

But as Tim heads towards the door he thinks what he’s really doing is going to tear somebodies world apart.

* * *

 

As Tim makes the short drive to Blackburn he tries not to think about the look on Billings face when he tells him. Tries not to think about Will lying somewhere on a cold metal table with two bullet holes in the back of his head. Tries and fails not to think about how badly he fucked this up. He couldn’t save Sam Lowell and he couldn’t save Will Billings, can’t even save himself. Sometimes it feels like everything he puts his hands on turns to dust and ash and runs through his fingers, and the tighter he tries to hold on the faster it disappears. 

It’s just all so random and pointless. Sam took a bullet to the head outside of some nameless Afghan village but it could have just as easily could have been him, Will got shot in his own car but whose to say it couldn’t have been some other lost kid. Tim is so tired of the violence and the death and the looks on the faces of the people left behind. He thought he’d left this behind when he got out, became a civilian. Thought he’d left this behind with the sand dunes and ghosts. As he’s finding out though he’s left nothing behind, and it’s not any easier here.

He parks and for a moment he sits in his car and thinks about he’d rather run through a hail of bullets then do what he’s about to do. He wants to run, run and keep running and never look back but he can’t because he made a promise and he broke it. Tim’s not proud of a lot of things he’s done in his life, and he came to terms with that a long time ago but he doesn’t break a fucking promise. Now he owes it to Ted Billings to tell him, and he owes it to Will Billings too.

The room he sits and waits in is all white, blindingly so. White painted brick walls, white floors, white ceiling. It’s like a hospital. Sterile and cold and empty he sits and waits. And like a hospital these walls have probably heard more prayers then the prison chapel. Tim doesn’t pray, because he gave up on asking for help a long time ago. Life had taught him from an early age that asking for help did nothing, that the only one you could truly rely on was yourself. So he doesn't pray or ask for help he just looks deep inside himself for courage to tell a man his grandson is dead. 

As he waits in the cold white room for the guard to bring Billings in he fidgets, picking at a scratch on the table, adjusting the neck of his shirt. As a sniper steady hands had sometimes been the difference between life and death, steady hands and a clear mind. Tim had always prided himself on being cool and collected, prided himself on his still hands. Now though he can’t seem to stop them from moving. It’s unsettling to not have control. Tim has built his life around having control, control of himself and control of the world around him. Lately though that tightly grasped control is spinning away from him and with it everything he's worked so hard to build here. 

Ted Billings is led into the room, hands cuffed in front of him. He looks smaller then Tim remembers in the prison jumpsuit, his broad shoulders drowning in the orange fabric. He seems tired too, and his already lined face looks worn in a way it hadn’t before. Mostly though he just looks old. He’d always been old of course, but when Tim first met him he carried it effortlessly. Now though the years show, now Tim can see how fragile he really is. He hasn’t lost his pride though, walks in with his head held high and his shoulders back. Tim bites the inside of his lip so hard that it bleeds at the thought that he’s about to break him.

Billings sits down opposite Tim, the metal of his chains rasping across the metal of the table between them. For some reason the noise irritates Tim, makes him unsettled and restless. He puts his hands on the table-top palms down, spreading his fingers wide and flat so that finally they are still again. He breathes in deeply through his nose and then releases it through his mouth. Keeps doing it till his heartbeat slows and evens. 

“What’s all this about Deputy? It’s nice of you to visit but I'm guessing this isn't a social call."

Tim nods slowly. When he speaks his voice is low and even and steady. 

“It’s about Will.”

Billings sighs and shakes his head, exasperation painted clear across his face. But hiding behind that Tim sees fear, coiled and lurking like a rattlesnake in the shadows. He remembers when he was 10 he had almost stepped on a rattle snake, curled in the shadow of the shed in the backyard. He had run to his father, fear and excitement and adrenaline pulsing in his veins to tell him. His dad had grabbed a shovel and walked out to the shed and with one arcing swing cut the head off the snake. Tim had cried then, deep aching sobs because he was only ten and he hadn't wanted to kill the snake. His father had just looked at him, and said "if we didn't kill it it would have killed us. It's just life Tim." and he hadn't understood then, but he understood now.  Sometimes it's necessary to take a life to save one, sometimes blood is the only option. Fear isn't rattle snake you can cut the head off of though, fear is insidious and creeping and cold and you can't kill fear no matter how hard you try. 

“Now what did he do this time? That kid’s got to get his head screwed on straight.”

Tim shakes his head, stopping Billings. There’s no good way to tell somebody their loved one has died, no easy way to break some ones heart. Like pulling a band aid off the best way to do it is all at once, but with a band aid the pain stops. With this, it doesn’t ever.

“Police found Will in his truck this morning. He had been shot. I’m sorry.”

The change isn’t instantaneous on Billings face. At first it remains neutral, impassive as the words sink in. Then slowly it starts to crumple in on itself bit by bit like the beginnings of an avalanche. It’s in his eyes first, that Tim sees the pain. Something that was still light and unbroken in them shatters and then the rest of his face follows. Tim wants to look away, hide from the awful truth dawning on Billings face but he doesn’t. He forces himself to look straight into Ted’s eyes and watch him break and remind himself of what his failures costs. Because it costs something, it always costs something. It costs in blood and salt and sand and it cost Sam Lowell his life and it cost Ted Billings the only thing he had left in this world and that is simply unacceptable. His failure is unacceptable and he will carve the pain in Ted Billings eyes into his skin and never forget. Billings speaks and his voice is rough like sandpaper with unshed tears.

“Did he suffer? In his last moments, do you think he was afraid?”

Tim thinks about Will sitting in the drivers seat of his truck. Thinks about the feeling of cold metal digging into the back of his skull and how he probably knew he was going to die, thinks about the acrid scent of fear and the breath on his neck from the man in the back seat and thinks that his last moments were regret and terror. He doesn’t say that to Billings though because the truth is ugly and bitter and there is a time and place for the truth that isn’t here in this little white room.

“It was quick, to the back of his head. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

Tim doesn’t like to lie, but he’ll lie to Ted Billings because he owes him that much.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out here in the fields, I fight for my meals  
> I put my back into my living  
> I don't need to fight to prove I'm right  
> I don't need to be forgiven.
> 
> -Baba O'riley by The Who

When Ted Billings walks into the visiting room his shoulders are unbowed, when he walks out he looks like a man who has carried a heavy burden all his life. Billings walks in a man with hope, he walks out a man with none. 

Tim drives straight home from Blackburn, doesn’t stop to call Art to tell him he won’t be coming in. He unlocks his front door, doesn’t bother to take off his shoes just walks straight to the kitchen table and sits down, staring blankly at nothing. After a good ten minutes of sitting and staring he takes out his service weapon and sets it in front of him on the table. Slowly and methodically he fields strips it. Slides out the magazine, empties the chamber, pulls back the slide and slips it off the receiver, pushes forward the recoil spring and removes the barrel. He sets each piece on the table in front of him neat and orderly and cleans each one till it shines and reassembles it. When he’s done with that he takes out his back up and dissembles and cleans that too. Tim sits and stares at those clean shiny guns sitting on his table for a little to long and then he stands and walks to the cupboard. He takes out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass and sets them in the table in front of him, stares at the dark amber liquid for a while. Pours himself a shot. Takes it. Pours himself another. Takes it. Gives up on the glass and starts drinking straight out of the bottle. He’s over two thirds of the way to shit faced when there’s a knock on the door. He considers not answering, just sits at the table but the knocking continues loud and insistent and eventually he gives in. Unsteadily he weaves his way to the door, bottle of jack in one hand and opens it. Raylan is standing there staring at Tim’s potted plants hat in hands, looking out of place on Tim’s front porch. He glances up when Tim answers the door, just looks at the bottle in his hand and his mouth tightens a little. Tim stares dumbly at him, confused as hell as to why Raylan is visiting him.

“May I come in?”

Raylan finally asks, not waiting for an answer as he pushes his way past Tim into the house. Tim shuts the door behind him, still unsure of this entire situation. He walks back to the kitchen where Raylan’s standing.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

Tim says waving the bottle in his hand blearily at Raylan. Raylan shakes his head. Tim shrugs and takes a swig, throwing himself down into a chair.  


“Why are you here Raylan? Shouldn’t you be off gettin’ into trouble and putting holes in people or somethin’?” 

“You seem intent on drinking yourself into a hole. I’m intent on stopping you.”  
  
Tim shrugs, slow and gentle and blurred.

“Good luck buddy.” 

* * *

 

Raylan doesn’t reply to the sardonic quip. Walking forward he sits down opposite Tim at his little kitchen table. Tim looks awful. Worse then Raylan’s ever seen, worse then he ever wanted to see. He looks empty, like somebody went in with a spoon and scooped out everything that made Tim Tim. Shell like and fragile he looks like if somebody tipped him over he might shatter into a thousand glass pieces on the floor. He looks dead. There’s no emotion in his eyes, no sadness or anger or anything, just flat resignation. Raylan notes the mostly empty bottle of whiskey, notes the guns laying flat on the table beside Tim’s right hand. He gestures with his chin, slow and careful.

“You plannin’ on doing anything with those guns Tim?”

There’s a moment of confusion on Tim’s face and then it clears and he barks out a bitter rasping laugh.

“I’m not goin’ to shoot myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Raylan’s face remains impassive, but he silently takes the guns and disappears into the living room. When he comes back they’re not in his hands anymore. He sits again, rests his arms on the table.

“You okay?”

Tim snorts and takes another drink.

“Me? I’m just fine. Will Billings-not so much. Two bullets to the back of the head will do that to you.”

His face is twisted in an awful parody of humor, skin stretched to thin over bone. Raylan looks at him skeptically, eyebrow raised.

“Tim, people who are fine don’t generally sit with a mostly empty bottle of jack and two loaded guns on the table.”

Tim shrugs.

“Guess I’m not most people.”`

Raylan shakes his head and sighs.

“No, no you’re not.”

They sit in silence for a while, Raylan waiting patiently and Tim inspecting the last of the golden brown liquid in his bottle. Finally he speaks again and his tone is almost conversational.

“Today I signed a mans death sentence. I walked into that prison and took everything from him.”

When Raylan replies it is quiet.

“You know it’s not your fault right?”  
  
Tim stares at the table and nods slowly and it doesn’t take a genius to see the lie. 

* * *

 

Tim wakes with a pounding head ache and a bitter taste in his mouth. There’s a second when Tim doesn’t remember yesterdays events, and for a short blissful moment his biggest concern is the pain behind his eyes and then he remembers and everything comes crashing down again and takes his breath away. He forces himself up and checks his alarm, already 8:20 which means he’s going to be late. Stumbling to his feet he finds he’s still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday and can’t bring himself to care enough to change.

There’s a deep numbness that’s settled deep in his belly somewhere in the hollowness of his body. Is a numbness he recognizes, it was there after Sam died and it was there the day his mother was found crumpled over the steering wheel of her smoking Honda civic with a BAC of .15 and it’s here now and Tim is just so cold. Cold and empty and tired. He thinks about skipping work, but the thought of sitting here in his house alone with his thoughts and his memories makes him shudder so he grabs the keys to his truck and heads out the door.

He drives to work in a haze, nearly running a red light and earning himself a barrage of angry honking but he barely hears it. Sometimes he thinks he left his soul in the desert, buried beneath the shifting dunes and endless wadi’s. Sometimes he thinks he’s empty inside, with nothing left to give. Life always manages to find a way to take more though. Life takes and Tim gives, and he guesses he’ll give till he’s nothing but skin and bones and bitter regret.

* * *

 He walks in the door and Art’s calling him into his office before he even has a chance to sit down at his desk. He doesn’t bother to close the door, just walks in and stands arms crossed in front of Art. Art gives him a once over and he can tell he’s noticing the rumpled clothes, messy hair, noticing the bags under Tim’s eyes.

“Tim, I heard about what happened to the kid. Why don’t you take the day off?”

Tim shakes his head,

“Thanks but I’m good. I just need to work.”

Art’s lips tighten and his eyes harden. When he speaks his voice is no longer gentle concerned but stern.

“Tim, I don’t think you’re hearing me. Take the day off, work will be here tomorrow.” 

“Art, I need to be here okay. I need to work, I need to do something I can’t just sit at home and do fucking nothing or I’ll go crazy. I can’t sit and think about that goddamn kid or his granddad I just- I need to be here.”

Somewhere between the start of his sentence and the end Tim’s voice raises and before he knows it he’s yelling voice echoing off the glass walls and ringing in his ears. The rest of the office falls silent, no papers turning or soft chatter and Tim can feel eyes burning into his back.

“Tim look at yourself, when was the last time you had a full nights sleep huh? Or ate a meal that doesn’t come in a microwave package. Right now you're not somebody I trust in the field.”  
  
Tim looks away because it’s true, however  much it stings to hear, and he can’t look Art in the face and lie. It’s all true but he doesn’t want to face that truth yet. Doesn’t feel ready to admit that he’s not coping anymore. Art’s voice falls, quiet again. 

“Look, Raylan told me about the drinking and the fighting. You’re going a bad place Tim, and we all want to help. But you have to let us. Can you do that?”

Tim looks up at him, a little betrayed because he thought Raylan of all people would understand keeping his private life and personal life separate. Although, looking back at Raylan’s track record maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. And he wants to tell Art that he isn’t trying to push them away but he’s been alone all his life and alone is how he knows to handle his problems and he doesn’t know how to say that the thought of letting someone in terrifies him. Doesn’t know how to say he’s scared to death at the thought of letting someone in and losing them. So he says nothing, just chokes on all the words in his throat that won’t come out. Art waits, and when it becomes clear Tim isn’t going to respond he sighs and shakes his head. 

“Go home and get some rest. Come back when you get your head on straight.”

Tim nods stiffly and turns, walking out of Art’s office. Outside people hurriedly return to their tasks, the room suddenly alive with the sound of keyboards clacking and people talking. He can still feel the eyes though, watching and wondering. He wants to scream and laugh and cry and hit something, wants to ask them if they like watching him fall. He doesn’t though, just heads for the door and clenches his fists tight.

Raylan walks up to him, and he has the decency to look a little guilty. Mostly though he looks concerned, or as a much as Raylan can look concerned.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think he needed to know Tim.” 

Tim ignores him, just keeps his lips closed so he doesn’t say something he regrets and brushes past him for the door. Raylan calls after him once, almost pleading in his tone but Tim ignores that too. 

He hesitates, just for a moment, at the door. Just for a second he's tempted to look back, wonders if Raylan is still standing there, wonders what his face might look like if he did turn. There's a little part of him that hopes Raylan will call out again, because if he did he might listen. He doesn't though, and Tim doesn't look back and again Tim is alone. 

* * *

 

He’s just rounding the corner to his house when he see’s a car parked outside it he’s never seen before. For some reason it just seems suspicious to him. There’s a thousand different reasons it could be there, a friend or relative visiting someone on his street, somebody’s lost, somebody got a new car but Tim doesn’t feel like it’s any of those. It’s a completely inconspicuous car, neutral gray, clean and fairly new with no bumper stickers or dashboard relics to signify anybody’s used it. Maybe that’s why it sets off alarms in his head, it’s too impersonal. Nothing to show anybody’s ever driven it. Whatever it is it makes him keep driving right past his house. He loops back around the block and parks a little down the street. Turning off the lights in his truck he peers through the windshield and waits. He watches his own house for about 10 minutes, nothing seems out of the ordinary and he’s about to write his suspicions off as the work of an overly paranoid and over tired mind when he sees something, a flash of white at the side of his house. Leaning in closer he narrows his eyes and sees a figure walk out from behind his place, he can’t make out the face but it’s the right height and weight to be Trevor Wilcox. He swears short and sharp, grabbing his phone he gets out of the truck, crouching behind the cab and drawing his glock. Dialing quickly he puts the phone up to his ear, not looking away from where he last saw Wilcox. Raylan picks up on the third ring, smooth drawl sounding staticy through the cell.

“Given’s”

“It’s Tim. I think Wilcox is at my house. Just saw somebody who looked a lot like him snooping ‘round my shed. Valdez might be here too I don’t know”

He can almost hear Raylan sitting up straighter on the other side of the line.

“Shit Tim I can barely hear you. Do you need back up?”

Unfortunately Tim never gets to reply because as he opens his mouth 50,000 volts of electricity enter his body through his neck. Every muscle goes rigid and stiff, gun and phone slip from his hands and clatter to the ground as he drops like a rock. There’s a moments respite as he falls before cold metal presses against his neck again and once more his muscles seize. It’s the strangest sensation, Tim’s acutely aware of the world around him, the gritty asphalt pressed against his face, the scent of tangy electricity and somebodies cheap aftershave, the slight taste of blood in his mouth, but he’s paralyzed. Can’t move, can’t speak he can only lie there and tremble. It feels like ages that he siezes there on the ground as electricity courses through his body but it can’t be more then maybe 30 seconds. When the taser finally pulls away the second time he feels every muscle in his body go limp like overcooked spaghetti. A foot digs into his side and flips him over onto his back and standing over him is a man he doesn’t recognize who’s joined after a few seconds by Wilcox who looks wide eyed and uncertain. 

“Isn’t this the marshal on the Wyatt case?”

Wilcox nods, a slightly panicked look on his face

“Shit,shit. He wasn't supposed to be here.

The first man gives him a look.

"Well he is. So what the fuck are we supposed to do with him?"

Wilcox appears to deliberate for a second, hand nervously running through his close cropped hair. Tim watches him with a strange sense of detachment, like he's watching through somebody else's eyes. Finally Wilcox comes to a decision. 

"Let’s knock him out and load him up.”

 The first man leans down again a nasty grin on his face.

“Nighty night Deputy.”

The taser lands on his neck again and this time it doesn’t pull away. The last thing Tim hears is Raylan’s voice calling his name out, tinny and small, from the phone by his head.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to be the better man   
> When you forget you're trying  
> It's hard to be the better man   
> When you're still lying
> 
> -Handcuffs by Brand New

Raylan holds the phone to his ear for a few more seconds, frowning when the call cuts off. Getting up he puts it back into his pocket and walks over to Art’s office. There’s a little swell of concern in him that he tries his best to suppress. He knocks on Art’s door as a courtesy not waiting for a response before stepping inside. Art looks up and sighs.

“Yes Raylan?”

“I just had a bit of a strange phone call with Tim.”

Art gives him a look and takes off his glasses, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“You’re goin’ to have to be a bit more specific then that, I’ve had lots of strange phone calls with Tim. None of them warranted barging into a superior’s office. Not that that ever seems to bother you.”

“Well he called me, said he thought he saw Trevor Wilcox snooping round his place. I asked if he needed backup and then the line went dead. Now could be his phone died, could be it was a false alarm and he just hung up…”

Raylan trails off, and Art gives him a pointed look.

“But you don’t think it is.”

It’s not a question and Raylan just nods.

“Well why don’t you go down to Tim’s place and have a look around, see what you find. And Raylan, don’t go doing anything stupid you hear me?”

Raylan nods

“Loud and clear Art. No stupid shit I promise.”

He doesn’t miss Art’s muttered groan,

“If only I believed that…”

* * *

 

As Raylan drives down to Tim’s place his fingers tap a nervous beat out on the steering wheel. There really isn’t much reason for worry, he’ll probably get down to Tim’s house and find him safe and sound and probably a little aggravated at Raylan’s appearance. There isn’t much reason for worry, but Raylan does anyway. Normally he wouldn't, Tim's a tough guy and Raylan's seen first hand that he can take care of himself if he needs to. This thing with Wyatt and Ted Billings and his goddamn grandson had really been messing with his head though, and he’s sliding back from whatever progress he’s made since Raylan’s known him. He thinks back to Tim’s voice on the phone, it sounded firm and clear, not the voice of a paranoid delusional man. He thinks about Valdez’s 23 kills and pushes his foot on the gas a little bit further down.

As he drives down Tim’s block warning bells sound when he sees Tim’s truck parked halfway down the block from his place on the opposite side of the street. He pulls up behind it and gets out of his car, glancing over to Tim’s house. It looks dark and quiet and empty, lights off in all the rooms Raylan can see. He peers into the truck and finds it also empty with keys still in the ignition and stands for a minute a little unsure of what to do next. The pit in the bottom of his stomach grows deeper. Tim might be an alcoholic vet with PTSD but he’s reliable, has a system and a schedule and sticks to it. It’s not like him to leave his truck parked like this and then disappear after a phone call like that. Figuring it’s worth a try Raylan pulls out his phone and calls Tim’s cell, foot tapping impatiently as it rings. As he waits he hears another phone ringing somewhere nearby, but when he looks around he’s alone. When Tim’s phone goes to voice mail he ends the call the ringing ends too. With a sinking feeling he calls Tim again, not bothering to put the phone up to his ear this time and follows the ringtone to a bush, using his handkerchief to avoid contaminating evidence he reaches in and pulls out Tim’s cellphone, his name and number glowing bright on the screen. Looks like it wasn’t just a bad feeling after all. With a grimace he calls Art.

“Went down to Tim’s house, he’s not there. His car is parked with key’s in the ignition and I just found his phone in a bush.”

Art swears,

“You figure Wilcox is good for this?”

Raylan shrugs, even though he knows Art can’t see him.

“I trust Tim’s word. But I don’t think Wilcox was working alone.”

“You think Valdez was there to?”

Raylan looks back at Tim’s truck, the phone in his hand.

“Maybe maybe not. I just don’t think one Detroit gang banger who barely has two brain cells to rub together could take Tim out by himself.”

Art sighs.

“Shit.”

The word is emphatic and exhausted and pissed off and concerned all at once and Raylan sympathizes greatly.

* * *

45 minutes later Raylan is back at the Marshal’s office, when he left Tim’s truck the street was awash with red and blue lights, officers crawling around the scene like bugs. Now he, Art, and Rachel are gathered in the meeting room staring at the photos of Wilcox and Valdez. Their frozen faces stare back, cold and impartial and completely unwilling to give up any information about the location of the missing marshal. They sit in silence for a while, like maybe if they look hard enough at the board it will unravel like a home-made sweater and give up its secrets. Unsurprisingly it remains just a sheet of plywood and corkboard and gives up nothing. Eventually Art throws down his pen.

“Shit.”

That word has been bandied around quite a lot this particular day, and most of the time the person doing the bandying it is Art. Rachel stands, pacing back and forth in the front of the room.

“So, what do we know?”

Her voice is clear and authoritative and to someone who didn’t know her very well sounds steady and detached. Raylan knows her pretty well, and hears the concern just beneath the surface. Raylan mutters under his breath

“Not much”

Rachel shoots him a glare and continues unfazed.

“Three weeks ago Tim takes Wyatt into custody. Week and a half later Wilcox shows up in town, and the day after Valdez flies in. Valdez is working for a Mexican drug cartel, Wilcox is working for a Detroit gang they supply, same gang Wyatt’s been running with. Both are presumably in town to take care of Wyatt. They lay low for almost two weeks, so why move now? Why break cover and bring a whole lot of attention to this case?”

Raylan stares at Valdez thoughtfully.

“I think we can safely assume Valdez is the brains here.”

He says pointing towards the grainy photo.

“He’s had a lot more experience, Wilcox is just a low level banger. It doesn’t seem logical for him to grab Tim, high profile kidnapping of a federal officer like this brings a lot of heat and only puts Wyatt further out of reach.”

Art nods in agreement.

“So why did they move now? Not like Wyatt’s court date is any time soon.”

Raylan sit’s and thinks for a second, chewing his lip. He slowly starts to speak, an idea forming.

“Tim wasn’t supposed to be home. He only went home because you sent him back. What if they never meant to take Tim, what if they were just snooping around his house and he surprised them.”

Rachel chimes in now, an edge of excitement in her voice.

“So, Wilcox sees him, panics, then grabs him and runs?”

Raylan nods.

“That’s what I’m thinking. Only thing doesn’t make sense is this doesn’t seem like something Valdez would do which implies he wasn’t there with Wilcox to make the grab.”

“So you’re saying there’s a third player involved, someone we haven’t seen yet?”

Art asks. Raylan nods again, getting up and walking over to the board. Pinning a blank piece of paper up he grabs Art’s discarded pen and draws a question mark on it.

“Valdez is the leader, and then Wilcox and our mystery man are just the brawn.”

Art sighs and rests his elbows on the table, rubbing his face with his hands.

“So we better figure out who the mystery man is then.”

Raylan grabs his hat from the edge of the table and shrugs on his jacket.

“I’m gonna head back down to the scene, interview some of Tim’s neighbors and see if they saw anything.”

Art shakes his head.

“Raylan there’s plenty of cops doin’ just that. Feds are flying in soon and they’re goin’ to want to talk to you. I need you here”

Raylan just walks out, throwing over his shoulder

“You know where I’ll be if they ask for me.”

Art throws up his hands and rolls his eyes.

“I swear, nobody in this whole damn office listens to me anymore. I am your boss you know!”

He calls after Raylan. Raylan pretends not to hear.

* * *

Raylan drives down the streets to Tim’s house for the second time today and wishes he wasn’t. Pulling up to the scene he hops out of his truck and ducks under the yellow plastic tape that’s been set up in the time he’s been gone, flashing his badge at the attending officer. There isn’t really much of a crime scene to secure, just Tim’s truck and the bush where he found Tim’s cell. And Raylan’s seen crime scenes a thousand times, and a thousand times bloodier then this but this one makes him uncomfortable because now it isn’t a nameless shapeless victim they’re cordoning off, it’s Tim. The thought unsettles him in a way he never thought it would. Walking over to the older officer who looks to be in charge he tips his hat as greeting.

“Found anything yet?”

The man shakes his head, face grim. Raylan glances at the nameplate pinned to his lapel, it reads Brady in tiny engraved letters. When he speaks his Kentucky accent is thick and clear.

“Nothin’ so far unfortunately. No blood, no prints, no weapon. We’ll keep at it but it doesn’t look good.”

Raylan nods, he’s not surprised really but it still stings to hear the news.

“What about the neighbors, anyone see anythin’?”

Another head shake, another grim look.

“A lot of people aren’t even home yet. Those who were aren’t divulgin’ much.”

“What about this one here? Should have had a good view of Tim if he was standing by his truck.”

Raylan says, pointing to a smallish grey house in front of them. It’s definitely seen better days, paint peeling off the side boards and the whole frame looking a little dilapidated. The front yard is well kept though, grass green and evenly trimmed and flowerbeds brimming with color. Brady looks at the house and shakes his head for the third time. Raylan’s getting real sick of shaking heads.

“We tried, but only person who lives there is an old lady. Pretty senile too, couldn’t get anything that made sense out of her.”

Raylan looks back at the house, the neatly manicured lawn.

“Mind if I have a go? I’ve been told I have a way with old folks.”

He hasn’t really, but who’s to say he doesn’t. Raylan prides himself on being quite the charmer, senile old lady or not. Brady shrugs, not looking particularly confident.

“Go right ahead, you’re wasting your time though.”

Raylan nods and thanks the man for his help. As he starts to walk away Brady calls to him.

“I hope you find your guy.”

Raylan turns back and nods.

“So do I.” 

* * *

 

Ms. Delilah Tucker certainly is old, and quite possibly senile Raylan thinks as he sits on her overstuffed floral couch. She’s a sweet old woman, a wisp of a thing, all billowing white hair and thin bony hands. She looks like she might break in two if the wind blew a little to hard. She’s the kind of old lady Raylan imagines bakes lots of chocolate chip cookies and crochets lace doilies. In any case it’s difficult to keep her on topic, she tends to loop tangentially to long winded stories about her children and grand children, or her late husband Fred who passed four years ago, or the neighborhood kids who like to ride their bikes through her yard. Or pretty much anything other then what Raylan’s trying to ask her. He leans in a little bit, sets down the cup of tea she insisted on making him and tries to get her focused again.

“I noticed you have a beautiful garden out front Ms. Tucker.”

She smiles and her eyes sharpen a little, mist clearing away for a moment.

“Why thank you, I do try to keep it nice. The house has gone a bit ever since Freddie died but I take pride in my garden.”

“It must be hard to take care of it all by yourself.”

She nods,

“Oh it is, I’m a bit old to be gettin’ down on my knees like that. Timothy helps me out with it you know, such sweet young man.”

Raylan’s a little taken aback, it’s hard to imagine Tim down on his hands and knees gardening. He files it away to make fun of Tim with later if (when, he corrects himself) they find Tim. He’s never heard anyone call him Timothy either, always Tim or Deputy Gutterson or occasionally ‘that bastard who shot me’ he tries to reconcile Timothy the nice young man with the Tim he’s seen shoot a man in the head from six feet away without flinching and fails. He supposes everybody has different sides to them and just never really bothered to discover Tim’s.

“Well Tim’s got himself in a spot of trouble just now. It would be real helpful if you could just try and remember if you saw anything at all out of the ordinary today.”

She sits, staring out the window, face dreamy and for a moment Raylan thinks he’s lost her again but then she snaps back, like a camera coming into focus.

“You know , there was somethin’ a little strange. Earlier today I was upstairs doin’ a little cleanin’ and I looked out the window and saw a car parked in front of Timothy’s house I’ve never see before. I’ve lived here a long time and I know most of the cars and people round these parts.”

Raylan sits up straighter now, sensing he’s closing in on something.

“Do you think you could describe the car Ms. Turner?”

She grins (a little bit wicked) and Raylan can see that she used to be quite beautiful.

“I can do you one better, got the license plate number somewhere. I collect them you see, states and numbers, just somethin’ to keep the mind sharp.”

Delilah stands walking into another room in the house and Raylan hears papers shuffling. When she comes back she’s holding a little moleskin notebook in her hands. Sitting down she flips it open and runs her finger down the page, stopping over one entry.

“Here we go, 392 JMD.”

Raylan pulls out his own notebook and notes the plate. He thinks back to Brady’s dismissal and has to suppress a smirk.

“Did you happen to see either of these men in the car?”

Raylan pulls two photos out of his inside jacket pocket, one of Wilcox and the other of Valdez and holds them out to her. She squints for a few moments and then nods, pointing to Wilcox.

“This fellow here was driving, and there was a passenger but it wasn’t him.”

She says gesturing to Valdez.

Raylan nods.

“If I got a sketch artist down here do you think you could describe him?”

She nods, that glint in her eyes again and Raylan gets the impression that under her clean white cardigan and string of faux pearls Delilah Turner is cold hard steel.

“Thank you very much for your help Ms. Turner.”

He gathers his noteback and the photos, putting them back in his pocket and stands. Delilah stands with him.

“Are you good at your job, Deputy Given’s?”

He considers his answer for a second, and the replies.

“Yes I am.”

She nods matter of factly and smooth’s out her cardigan. 

“Good. Now you better go out and find these son’s of bitches. My garden ain’t gonna weed itself you know.”

Raylan smiles a little, senile my ass, and nods.

“Yes ma’am I will.”

Walking out the front door he pulls out his phone and dials Art. He answers, sounding tired.

“I’ve got confirmation Wilcox was here, and a plate, make and model for the vehicle he’s driving. Also, I have somebody who saw our third guy, I’m going to get a sketch artist working with her.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and Raylan wonders if Art’s hung up but then he swears,

“Well shit, I’m not goin’ to ask how you do it Raylan. I’m just glad you do.”

Pulling out his notebook again he rattles off the information he got from Delilah and then hangs up sticking his phone back in his pocket before heading over to his car.

* * *

 

Walking into the office Raylan throws his jacket over his chair, turns to Rachel.

“Got a BOLO out on the Toyota?”

Rachel nods, he can tell she wants to make a sarcastic comment but she restrains herself.

“Ran the number you gave us, the plates were reported stolen about a week ago. Same with the car, matches the description of one reported missing a week and a half ago in Dayton. We’ve sent a uniform over to talk to the owner but I doubt we’ll get anything.”

Raylan sighs, walking over to the kitchen and pouring himself a mug of coffee. He sips it, and grimaces. It’s cold.

“So Wilcox and his buddy steal a car in Dayton, steal plates for it here in Lexington. No way to connect it to them or the Bloods.”

He pours the rest of his coffee down the sink and puts on a new pot, turning and leaning against the edge of the counter.

“Where’s Art?”

Rachel makes a face.

“On the phone with the feds.”

Raylan feels like making his own face. The FBI were not popular in this office, they had a tendency to not quite understand how the team worked and more often then not got in the way. Raylan had yet to meet a FBI agent whose company he enjoyed and he doubted that would ever change, especially not today. As if on cue Art walks out of his office looking like he just sucked a lemon.

“So two of our special friends from the Federal Bureau of Investigation will be joining us later today. They’ve been working the cartel Valdez is connected to for a few months now and are here to ‘assist us’ in our efforts. Now I want you all to play nice when they get here, I’m lookin’ at you Raylan.”

Raylan throws his hands in gesture and nods.

“Now why would I go around pickin’ fights Art.”

Art just gives him a look, not even bothering to respond and shakes his head as he walks back to his office muttering under his breath, Raylan catches the words insubordinate and pig headed and can’t help but smirk. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And time is raging, may it rage in vain  
> And you always had it but you never knew  
> So boots and saddles, get on your feet  
> There's no surrender, no retreat
> 
> -Flesh and Bone by The Killers

Tim wakes to dry mouth, a pounding headache and an ache in every muscle in his body. He swallows hard, trying to wet his throat but there’s no spit to swallow- _dehydration_ \- a small voice echoes in his head, it would explain the headache. There’s a low rumble vibrating through his body and he can hear a faint whistling noise from somewhere. For a second he doesn’t know where he is, disoriented by the darkness but then a jolt sends him rolling and his head thumps against carpeted metal and everything comes rushing back. He’s in the trunk of a car, and the whistling is the sound of air rushing by and seeping in the cracks. The bump awakens a new pain on the back of his head and he reaches up to investigate only to discover his hands have been taped behind his back. 

There’s a moment of panic that rises in his throat and threatens to choke him and he wants to scream and kick and shout but he knows that won’t do any good, there’s no one around to hear him and it’ll just waste energy. Instead he takes a deep breath in, holding it for seven beats before exhaling and closes his eyes tight to think. He had been on the phone with Raylan when he got jumped (and he curses himself that he let his attention slip enough let this happen) so hopefully his kidnapping will have already been discovered. Tim figures they’re not going to kill him seeing as he’s one of the few people who knows where Wyatt has been stashed so all he has to do is hold out till his team finds him. He breathes again, in and out, inhale-hold-exhale, he can do this. He can do this.

Wriggling his way down closer to the corner of the trunk Tim pulls back his legs and delivers a solid kick to the right taillight. After a few good whacks it dislodges with a satisfying pop and tumbles to the road. With a little bit of contortion Tim manages to turn himself around so he can peek out his makeshift window. It’s not too enlightening, all he can see is road and trees which could be pretty much anywhere. It doesn’t help that he’s not sure how long he was out for, he could be across the state line by now for all he knows. Not that knowing where he was would do much good anyways.

He has no way of knowing how soon the car will stop so he figures he might as well get some rest, it might be the last opportunity he has for a while. He settles back, rolling a little and tries to get as comfortable as he can in the trunk of a very small car with his hands duck taped behind his back. It takes him back to the ranger graves in Afghanistan, the smothering darkness, the feeling of being surrounded on every side. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity, although Tim would love to replace the duc tape with an MK 16. 

* * *

 

His sleep is restless and light, interrupted by the occasional bump in the road that sends him flying. When the car finally rolls to a stop Tim is well and truly tired of the trunk and much too acquainted with the carpeting. He hears movement from the front of the car, doors slamming and the rustling crack of feet on gravel. For a few moments the sounds of a muttered discussion float to Tim’s ears and then approaching footsteps. He braces himself as much as he can in the small space, legs pulled up tight to his chest. If he’s going down he’s going down fighting. The footsteps stop and there’s the sound of a key scratching in a lock, then the trunk pops open to reveal the face of the guy who had tased him, he hadn’t notice before (to busy seizing on the street) but his face is marked by a deep purple birthmark that stretches up his cheek and across his forehead. Easy to identify, the cold logical part of his brain thinks, easy to find.

Tim explodes upwards, legs unfolding quick and hard straight into the mans stomach and Tim grins as he feels his boots dig deep and the man’s face twists in pain and surprise. He stumbles back, breathe wheezing out of his lips and arms wrapped around his torso. The brief satisfaction is cut short when the man draws himself up and pulling his arm back punches Tim so hard in the face for second his vision goes black. When it comes back he tastes blood in his mouth and there’s a bright ringing sound in his ears that refuses to go away. Shaking his head blearily he sees a fist descending once again and braces himself but to his surprise Wilcox pulls the other man away.

“Shit man if you knock him out again he'll will kill us cool down okay?”

There’s a second of indecision in the angry man’s face but finally he takes a deep breath and his shoulders lose a little of their tension. Tim breathes a little deeper. Wilcox walks over and pulls Tim out of the trunk none to gently. Legs cramped from the tight space and head still ringing he stumbles nearly falling, bound hands failing to keep him upright. Wilcox and the other man grab him one on either arm and half walk half drag him across towards the small cabin the Toyota is parked next to. As his feet scrape Tim looks around, trying to look for any clue to his whereabouts but all he gets is sky and more fucking trees. Then he’s inside the house and door swings shut behind him and suddenly there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach.

They hustle him through a narrow hallway, doors on either side of him and into a small open living room. Wilcox pulls a chair from around a little fold out camp table and sets it in the middle of the open space, and the second man throws him down in it roughly before kneeling and securing his feet to the legs of the chair.

“How are your ribs feeling? Think I felt one snap, might want to get that checked out.”

The man gives him a dirty look and pulls the tape a little tighter around Tim’s left ankle before standing and walking over to Wilcox. Tim can hear them muttering to each other, Wilcox sounds nervous but his partners voice is low and tight with anger. Number 2 has a temper Tim notes, and files it away for future use. They’re speaking to quiet for him to hear anything of use so instead he looks around the room. It’s small, maybe 10 by 10. There’s a worn grey couch sitting in the right corner and a window directly across from him. Other then the couch the space is completely empty. Behind him is a small kitchen, just a fridge and stove and a few cupboards and the table. The entrance is to his left, and Tim is guessing that the two doors he saw on his way in lead to a bedroom and a bathroom. Over all the place is bare, and not very well kept, the carpet under his feet a dirty grey color and the windows grimy and smudged.

While he surveys his surroundings Wilcox and the other unknown man finish their conversation. The other man disappears through one of the other doors in the small cabin but Wilcox drops down onto the couch and stares at him. Tim stares back, unfaltering. 

“Trouble in paradise huh? Seem like your partner has a bit of a temper."

Wilcox doesn’t answer, just glares at him warily from his corner. Tim keeps pushing, sensing a weak link, he tries a different tack when he speaks again.

“Do you know how long you can go away for kidnapping a federal agent Trevor?”

Wilcox starts to look uncomfortable now, and he snaps at Tim

“How do you know my name?”

Tim shrugs, or tries to at least it’s difficult with his hands taped behind his back.

“It’s my job to know things like this Trevor. And I also know you and your friend are from Detroit, I know that you run with the Seven Mile Bloods, and I know that you're working with Hector Valdez.”

It’s a bit of a gamble because Tim doesn’t know if they’re working with Valdez, it’s a educated guess at best and at worst it gives away all the cards Tim has left in his hands. The gamble pays off though when Wilcox flinches, eyes wide. The expression comes and goes in a second but it’s enough to tell Tim everything he needs to know.

“He seems like a dangerous guy, a guy who’s killed a lot of people. I wouldn’t want to be working with him personally.”

Wilcox gets up now expression torn between fear and anger.

“You need to stop talking now.”

“You could go to prison for a long time Trevor. If you let me go right now that doesn’t have to happen.”

Wilcox shakes his head, and there’s a split second of something that looks a lot like indecision on his face.

“Shut the fuck up. Shut up now.”

His raised voice attracts the attention of the Mr. Angry who emerges from the other room.

“What’s going on in here?”

Not wanting to blow the progress if he can call it that he’s made with Wilcox Tim chimes in.

“It’s nothing, just a friendly chat.”

The man doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring at Wilcox with a suspicious look on his face.

“I wasn’t asking you, asshole. Trevor?”

Wilcox shakes his head, retreating to the dirty couch and sitting down again throwing a glare in Tim’s direction.

“It’s nothing, he just felt like running his mouth is all.”

Angry turns back to Tim and there’s a nasty smile on his face.

“Good thing there’s an easy solution for that.”

He walks back behind Tim in the direction of the kitchen and there’s the sound of a cupboard opening and closing. When he comes back into view there’s a dirty rag in his mouth. Leaning forward he stuffs it into Tim’s mouth with a little too much force. It tastes like mildew and peroxide and he has to resist the urge to gag. Tim’s really starting to regret his inability to shut up right about now. 

* * *

 

It’s a little after four when the Federal Bureau of Investigation arrive, bringing with them an air of crisp impersonal efficiency and boxes upon boxes of paper.. There’s two of them from the Detroit office both in bland grey suits and matching crew cuts, both equally professional and equally irritating in Raylan’s opinion. The first thing they do is take over the conference room, and soon the room is filled with old files and the buzz of computer fans. The second is ask to speak to Art in his office. 

Art sits behind his desk opposite the two suits. Raylan stands in the corner, brooding and dark and tries his best not to glare.

The one on the left, Ryans uncrosses his legs and leans forward, throwing the file he was reading through on Art’s desk.

“Well the good news here is your man is most likely still alive. They want him for information so they won’t kill till they have it.”

Art and Raylan don’t have to ask what the bad news is. The other man, Raylan thinks his name is Browning, speaks up.

“Now, we don’t mean to be insensitive but how likely it is it Deputy Gutterson will talk if he’s… under pressure.”

Raylan can feel his hackles rise, these men talk so casually about the torture and possible murder of a federal agent, Raylan’s friend and it sits wrong. One glance at Art shows he’s pissed too.

“Unlikely, considering he’s a decorated veteran of the US rangers and one of the best deputy’s I’ve ever worked with.”

The two agents exchange glances.

“We understand your frustration here. But you have to understand that keeping Wyatt alive is of the highest priority, what he knows could potentially save hundreds of lives and shut down a major cartels trade to the US.”

Art sits forward in his chair, face stormy.

“Well I’m goin’ to ask you to understand that getting Deputy Gutterson back safe and alive is _my_ highest priority. If I could trade Wyatt for my man right now I would do it in it second. But since that’s not an option in the interest of keeping the witness alive my advice is keeping him right where he is.”

Browning looks skeptical,

“Are you sure about that, Chief Deputy Mullen? If your man breaks”

Art looks like he’s going to protest but Browning just holds up his hand appeasingly

“If he breaks, that puts Wyatt in a considerable amount of danger.”

Raylan smiles, Art’s got that look on his face that means somebody’s about to get their ass handed to them on a platter and he’s going to enjoy the show.

“Now I’m sure you’re not presumin’ to tell me how to do my job. I have been working this particular detail for twenty odd years, since before you first learned how to put your trousers on without help I’d imagine. If we move the witness now there’s a whole lot of hullabaloo involved that’s basically a neon sign telling our friends from Detroit and Mexico where to go. We have to assume they don’t where he is, so put officers in the safe house with him and plainclothes on the street and he’ll be safe as he’ll ever be. Now, that’s just some friendly advice, take it or leave it. But if you don’t know that there’s no blood on my hands if anythin’ happens. There will be blood on your hands though if anything happens to Tim.”

Raylan has to give it to them, they recover well although they can’t entirely hide the sheepish looks on their faces. Ryans coughs anxiously and tugs at his suit.

“Well then, we’ll leave Wyatt where he is for now.”

They both reach across the table to shake hands with Art and Raylan graces them with a nod. Ryan’s already out the door when Browning pauses, halfway in and halfway out and looks back into the office.

“Just remember, bigger fish.”

The way he says it makes Raylan want to punch him right in the nose.

 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna raise, raise hell  
> There's a story no one tells  
> You gotta raise, raise hell,  
> Go on and ring that bell
> 
> -Raise Hell by Brandi Carlile

Tim doesn’t know how long he sits in that chair waiting for something to happen, an hour, two hours, there’s nothing to base his perception of time on and so the minutes and seconds blur together meaninglessly. He sit’s there long enough for his arms to go numb and to come up with q number of inventive ways he's going to make Wilcox and co. suffer if he ever gets out of this. Just as he's about to scream from the monotony the front door opens with a whining creak and then shuts again. The sound is like lightening bolt in the quiet cabin, both Wilcox and his partner jerking upright. For the first time since he woke up in the trunk Tim feels fear settle in his stomach, thick and bitter. For the first time he’s afraid because these men are afraid and the fear in their eyes scares him more then any fists or threats could.

When Valdez walks in the room it’s strangely anticlimactic. He just looks so ordinary, worn jeans and tee shirt, baseball cap which he takes off and throws on the table, slight scruff starting to come in. He looks like a dad coming to pick his kid up from soccer practice, looks like Tim’s next door neighbor, looks like any one of hundreds of people Tim’s seen walking up and down the streets of Lexington. And maybe that’s why he’s so dangerous, why he’s killed 23 people and never been touched. Because he’s ordinary, because he can be anybody he is nobody. The only give away is his eyes, Tim thinks. His eyes are bright and cold like ice and when he stares at Tim he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Valdez turns to Wilcox, gestures at Tim.

“Take the gag out.” 

His voice is deep and rough, heavily accented the e's fall out of his mouth short and sharp. Wilcox scurries forward obediently, not making eye contact. The two men from Detroit may look tough with their tattoos and shaved heads but it’s obvious who’s top dog here. Tim coughs a little as the dirty rag is removed, running his tongue over his teeth and trying to get rid of the taste. Valdez waits, arms crossed and face unreadable.

“You must be Hector Valdez.”

Valdez smiles a little, but the expression never reaches his eyes.

“I see you’ve done your homework Deputy. You must know why I’m here then.”

Tim nods,

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“You must also know what we want.”

“Got a pretty good idea of that too.”

Valdez nods matter of factly, rubbing a hand at the dark stubble on his chin.

“You seem like a smart man, and so I’m not going to patronize you by saying if you tell us we’ll let you go. There’s no way you’re getting out of this alive, Deputy. But I will offer you this, tell us now and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Don’t and you will wish I had.”

The way he says it sends chills down Tim’s spine. It’s not a threat, not a boast, it’s a fact. There’s no danger in his tone of voice, just flat and simple truth and that’s more terrifying then any threat could be.

“So, your choice Deputy. I’ll give you some time to think about your answer.”

Valdez turns to walk away and Tim knows this is where he makes his choice, this is where he decides. But as he watches Valdez’s back retreat he knows there isn’t a choice, there never was. Wilcox is a shit bag, and Tim wouldn’t lose one nights sleep if he showed up dead, but Tim job is to keep him safe and he’ll do that come hell or high water. He couldn’t save Sam or Ted or Will, couldn’t save the ones that mattered, but Trevor Wilcox will not die, not while he's under Tim's protection. He may not be a good man, but he’s a dutiful one.

“I already know my answer.”

Valdez turns back, face blank as a fresh sheet of paper.

“What would that be?"

Tim grins, wide and bloody,

“Eat shit and die motherfucker."

* * *

 It’s past one when Raylan finally falls into bed. He’d wanted to stay at the office longer but Art had given him a stern look and told him to go home and sleep and come back in the morning. He doesn’t bother to take off his clothes, just kicks of his boots and throws his hat onto the bedside table and sinks into the mattress. Rolling onto his back Raylan rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to scrub away the grit and stress of the day. Everybody was working hard but the truth was even with the information Raylan had pulled from Delilah Tucker there still wasn’t much to go on. A generic car make and model, a stolen license plate, a rough sketch of a Detroit gang banger. They were doing their best, but even as they worked they labored under a constantly ticking clock. It was already nearly 16 hours since Tim’s phone call which means nearly 16 hours since he was taken. They all worked in law enforcement, they all knew that after the first 48 hours chances of actually finding the victim drop severely. 

It jars with Raylan to think of Tim as a victim, the two words don’t go together in his mind. Raylan’s thought of Tim as a lot of things in the time he’s known him, an annoyance, a friend, a damn good shot. He’s thought he’s broken man in many ways, an angry man, but not a victim. Never a victim. Because Tim has never let the world turn him into one no matter how hard it tried. From what he’s pried out of his co worker (which isn’t much, Tim’s an intensely private person) there hasn’t been much joy in Tim’s life, but for all his nights in bars and self destructive habits he’s never once heard Tim complain. He never lets his pain spill out onto the others in his life, and Raylan has to respect him for that because it’s something he has a bad habit of doing. Shaking his head Raylan reaches over to set his alarm and switches off the lamp before he drifts into a restless sleep.

* * *

 Raylan’s woken not by his alarm but by the ringing of his cell loud and obnoxious. Rolling over he groggily flips it open and presses it too his ear, glancing at his alarm as he does which reveals it’s a little past seven. Clearing his throat he answers roughly.

“Givens”

The voice that echoes down the line is frail and quiet and wholly unexpected.

“Hello, it’s Delilah Tucker. I’m sorry for the early hour but I think… I think I know who the other man in that car was.”

Raylan’s awake and upright in a second, already swinging his feet out of bed and into his shoes, tucking the phone into the crook of his shoulder and ear he reaches over and pulls on his coat, grabbing his keys gun and badge of the desk where he’d discarded them.

“I’ll be down in 15 minutes.”

As it turns out by breaking a few traffic laws and earning himself some bad karma Raylan makes the trip to Mrs. Tucker’s house in 10. As he drives he can’t help but think about the fact that six and a half more hours have passed, six and a half hours of Tim’s time trickled away while he slept. He thinks about how it’s been almost 24 hours since Tim went missing, almost half of the crucial window is gone. He shakes his head and drives a little faster.

Raylan knocks once on the white paint of Mrs. Tucker’s house and a few seconds later it opens to reveal the diminutive woman standing neat and prim in a pastel floral print dress and cardigan. She waves him in with a greeting and taking off his hat Raylan steps inside.

“So, you said you know who the other man in the car is?”

She nods,

“Yes, I think I do. Cup of tea Deputy Gutterson?”

Raylan shakes his head, trying to hide his impatience.

“I’m alright Mrs. Tucker.”

She ignores his response, bustling into the kitchen and opening a cupboard. Raylan sighs and takes a seat on the couch. A few minutes later she returns with two cups of tea, wisps of steam coiling from the surface and sits opposite him before reaching out over the polished wood to pass him one. Her hands are as old and fragile as the rest of her, veins like blue rivers tessellating beneath translucent tissue paper skin. Despite her ag, her hands are steady and calm as Raylan takes the delicate china cup from them. Politely Raylan takes a small sip of the bitter black tea before prompting her gently.

“Mrs. Tucker, you said on the phone you think you know who the other man in the car was?”

She nods, setting down her tea cup.

“Yes, he had this large mark on his face, a…a birthmark. I didn’t remember until this morning but there was a boy who lived on this street, oh must be twenty years ago now with that mark on his face. He wasn’t a very nice child from what I recall, always getting into fights and I never saw him smiling much. Got it from his father I suppose, his daddy Eli was a hard man and not at all fit to be a father. Anyways the two of them moved to Detroit when he was about 13 I believe. Eli had a cabin up in some parks land, just past Whitley City if that's any help.”

Raylan nods slowly, working though it in his head. All the facts seem to line up, the general age, the move to Detroit, a secluded property in the family.

“Do you remember his name?”

She looks down, forehead wrinkled in concentration and raises her fingers to her lips.

“It was so long ago now… My memory gets a little hazy sometimes you knos.”

Setting aside his own cup Raylan leans forward, takes one of her steady cool hands in his own and imbues his voice with as much urgency as he can. 

“Mrs. Tucker, this could save Tim’s life. I need you to try as hard as you can to remember alright? For him.”

She nods, lips pursed. They sit in silence for a moment, Raylan still clasping her hand. Feeling thin birdlike bones jut against his palms and the gentle thump of her heartbeat against the skin of his wrist. They sit and Raylan waits, holding his breath, until finally her face brightens like the sun emerging from behind a cloud and she looks up.

“Brian. Brian Townsend, that was his name.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Raylan walks out the door he’s calling Rachel. She answers, sounding a little disgruntled. 

“Raylan, where the hell are you? “

Raylan reaches his car, switching the phone to his other hand so he can pull out his keys.

"I think I might know where Tim is, I need a little assistance though.”

Raylan can almost hear Rachel straighten up on the other end of line, all snippiness gone in a flash.

“What do you need?”

“Can you run a name for me? See if there’s any properties attached to it?"

“Yeah, give me a second.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Rachel speaks,

“Alright, what’s the name?”

“Brian Townsend.”

Raylan can hear the sound of keys tapping and Rachel softly spelling out the name under her breath before she reports back,

“I’ve got nothing.”

Raylan swears and thinks for a second before replying.

“Okay, try looking under Eli Townshend.”

There’s another moment of silence and then,

“So it looks like Eli owns a small bit of land up in Daniel Boone National Forest. Took out permits to build a cabin back in ’78.”

“That’s where Tim is.”

When Rachel replies her voice is cautious but tight with hope, like she’s afraid to believe him and be disappointed.

“Are you sure?”

When he answers there’s no doubt in his mind, call it a hunch, call it intuition, but Raylan feels it in his bones that he’s right.

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, I’ll call in SWAT. You should get to the office, we’ll start organizing here.”

Raylan taps his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking hard before coming to a decision. Thinks about the seconds ticking away inexorably and thinks about Tim. 

“It’s goin’ to take a while to get everybody rounded up and ready. The park is close, I can be there in two hours.”

Static blurs Rachel’s voice when she replies,

“Raylan, there’s at least three guys there maybe more. You don’t know what you’re walking into, just wait for SWAT to get there.”

He’s already turning the key in the ignition and pulling away from the curb before she finishes her sentence, keying the address into his GPS. 

“You’re already going aren’t you.”

“You know me too well.”

Rachel sighs, the sound rattling over the line.

“Art is goin’ to kill you when you get back. I hope you know that.”

Raylan smirks,

“I can deal with Art. I don’t think he’ll kill me, not yet at least. A couple more months with me around and he might though.”

Rachel laughs lightly over the phone and for a moment they pretend it’s just another day at work and that Tim isn’t missing, ignore the little voices in the back of both their heads that say all Raylan might arrive to is a dead body, or worse, arrive tonothing at all. When Rachel replies though her voice is serious again.

“Raylan, if either of you die, I am personally kicking both your asses. You hear me?”

“I know you will. And that’s somethin’ to be afraid of. ”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the devil came to visit me  
> He said son I am your enemy  
> Fear me  
> But it came to my surprise  
> I was drawn by the fire 
> 
> -Fire by Noah Gunderson

It’s not so bad, Tim thinks, as a fist slams into the side of his face. It’s a beating plain and simple and that’s nothing new to Tim, sometimes it feels like his whole life has been one beating after another. It’s a beating with questions thrown in between punches and it’s not fun but it’s not the end of the world either. Tim will endure, as he always does. 

He uses a trick he came up with when he was a kid and his dad came home with angry eyes and angry fists, it’s simple, just running through the alphabet in his head letter by letter. Simple as it is it gives him something to focus on beside the pain, takes his mind off of fists and questions and an aching sense of fear. Second by second, letter by letter he waits.

Valdez has kept his hands off Tim for the most part, instead letting Wilcox and his angry friend do most of the work. Instead he stands in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, wide stance and resting lightly on the balls of his feet. A fighter’s stance. His face is still as blank and impassive as ever as he watches Tim, eyes betraying nothing. Eventually he uncrosses his arms and waves Wilcox off. Wilcox stops immediately, stepping away like a well trained dog. Tim almost laughs at the thought.

“Because I’m a forgiving man I’m going to give you time to reconsider your earlier reply. You have an hour.”

And with that he turns and leaves the room, disappearing from Tim’s field of view. Trevor, and by now Tim’s figured out the other man is named Brian, follow him. He can hear their movement behind him but he can see nothing beyond the front of the room, it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Eventually though the sounds stop and he hears a door creak open and then shut somewhere else in the small cabin, eventually he is alone.

It isn’t until he is alone that the doubt and fear come sweeping in like a tidal wave. It isn’t until he’s alone that Tim drown’s.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

 And Tim drowns, chokes on the blood in his mouth and in his lungs and on his hands. Drowns in the wrongs he’s done and the rights he hasn’t and wonders if this is something worth dying for. Wonders if he’s really been living at all. Because he came home and the world moved on, but he didn’t. Didn’t move on from sand and dust and dirt and blood and the hole in Sam’s forehead and the hole inside of him that grew larger every day.

And this moment , he thinks, is about what he can compromise and still be true. This moment is about what he is willing to give up about himself, what ideals he holds closest that he is willing to sacrifice. Because at his core, if you burned away everything else, what would be left is a man who did what was right. A person who did things because he believed they were right. Did he want to protect Wyatt? No. Did he like Wyatt? No. Did he think Darren Wyatt was a man who deserved to be saved? Probably not, but it was the right thing to do. It was his duty to do. So could he set that aside and still be able to live with himself? He used to think the answer to that was undeniably no but he watched a good innocent man go to prison and he could have stopped it and he did nothing. If he’s honest with himself he’s not sure he knows the difference between right or wrong anymore and if he doesn’t have that then he has nothing. If he doesn’t know right from wrong then how is to know if all the lives he’s taken are right. He used to comfort himself with the fact that he’s saved a lot of lives with what he’s done. And that’s true, he has. But he’s also taken a lot of lives.

It’s dark now, the sun setting behind the thick brush of tree’s Tim can see through the window he’s facing. Shadows creep across the floor towards his chair in inky threads, twining around his ankles like tentacles and he swears he can almost feel them on the skin of his ankle. The back of his throat is dry and coppery with the taste of blood, his head pounds a syncopated rhythm that he feels in his skull. Everything seems a little blurry at the edges, like old film or opening your eyes under the water. He wonders if he’s going to die here, in this cabin in some unknown Kentucky forest with blood on his tongue and in his throat. Wonders if he’s going to die for something he’s not sure he believes in. He wishes he wasn’t alone. 

He thinks he sleeps, but dreams blur with reality and he can’t tell if he’s asleep or just seeing things. He sits, he waits, and for the first time in a long time (for the first time since his mother died, for the first time since he realized the only one he could ask for help was himself) he prays. He doesn’t pray for himself though, he prays that Raylan and Rachel and Art won’t blame themselves for his mistake. He prays that wherever Will Billings is he’s found some sort of peace. He prays that Ted Billings finds something to live for, the he finds hope. He prays that the kind old lady across the street finds somebody else to help take care of her garden.

* * *

 When Valdez returns he has the first display of emotion on his face Tim’s seen. It’s slight, his eyebrows barely pulled together, a hint of tension in his jaw, it’s slight but Tim sees it. He sees it and recognizes it as fear. He thinks that a Hector Valdez who is afraid is more terrifying then one who is not. Valdez stands in front of Tim, flanked on either side by Wilcox and Brian like tattooed gate-keepers. He’s holding something loosely in his left hand, but Tim can’t quite make out what it is. 

“I have given you an hour. What is your answer?”

Tim want’s to make a sarcastic comment but his lips feel swollen and numb and he’s just so tired so he just shrugs limply and rasps.

“Hasn’t changed, asshole.”

Valdez shakes his head and sighs,

“You are a stubborn man, Tim Gutterson. I respect that.”

He turns and nods towards Wilcox,

“Untie his arms.”

Trevor scurries forward, pulling a knife out of his back pocket he flicks it open and starts to saw at the tape around Tim’s wrists. The blade nicks the inside of his left wrist and he can feel blood pool and trickle down his palm, warm and thick mixing with sweat. Valdez moves forward and now Tim sees that what he’s holding in his hand is a flat rubber headed mallet, ones he used to see his dad use when he was sober enough to finish some of the wood working projects he eternally had lying around. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach.

Valdez walks over to the little fold out table and grapping the lip of it with his free hand he drags it back behind and around Tim, the metal legs grate and squeak against the wood floor and the sound rings in Tim’s ears. As he does he starts talk, tone conversational.

“You are a sniper correct? A good one too. Your aim got you a few medals in Afghanistan, I know because I saw your military record Tim. Very impressive. It’s very delicate work, what you do. A little to the left, a little to the right and –poof- there goes your kill. You need delicate hands for that sort of work, steady hands.”

He finally sets the table down with a heavy thud, just to the right of Tim. Lifting the hammer he lets the head rest on the edge of the cheap linoleum surface, black rubber threatening and familiar all at once.

“One last chance. Where is Darren Wyatt? Tell us, and all this,”

He says gesturing towards the table and hammer.

“It goes away. No more pain, no more anything at all.”

And now, staring into Valdez’s cold eyes, Tim knows what he can sacrifice. Knows what he can leave behind. This is fire, it will come and it will burn and what is left when it leaves will be the truth. His truth. Fire will burn away all the lies. When he replies every word is spat out through gritted teeth and every word is true.

“Go. To. Hell.”

There’s a flicker of something that looks like rage that flies across Valdez’s face and then it’s gone. Face once again impassive he shrugs,

“Very well. Hold him.”

At Valdez’s command Brian comes up in front of Tim and wrestles his right arm out from behind his back, forcing it out from his body and onto the table. Wilcox behind him holds his other arm secure. Tim struggles, twisting and bucking against the restraining hands not because he thinks he can escape but because he is not stupid enough or proud enough not to be afraid.

And he is afraid, he feels the fear like a hot coal in his stomach and he wants to shout and swear and wants to be anywhere but here. In the movies this would be when the cavalry would come riding in, guns blazing and with quippy one liners aplenty to save him because in the movies the hero never hurts like this. In movies they always save them just in the nick of time and everything works out in the end. But this isn’t a movie and Tim isn’t a hero and nobody’s coming to save him. This is the real world and Tim’s seen to many good men suffer and die when they shouldn’t have to think it’ll be any different for him.

His hand is being pressed flat on the table now, fingers splayed out against the sticky surface. He tries to fist his fingers but somebody pulls them out again sharp fingernails digging into the skin of his hand. Everything’s moving so quickly, like a tape on fast-forward time feels jerky and disconnected. The pressure on his shoulder is heavy and painful and the muscles of his arm pull and burn. He wonders if this is what a trapped animal feels like, he fights like one to escape. But it’s three against one and he never had a chance anyways.

Valdez raises the hammer high in the air, and it hovers there for what feels like forever. Seconds stretching into eternities and then snapping back into place. Wilcox’s breath is hot and moist on the back of his neck. The air smells slightly of crushed pine and sweat. He can see a faint silvery scar on the inside of Valdez’s wrist. His breath is trapped and bubbling in his lungs. Still the hammer hovers. Tim wishes it would fall. Tim wishes this moment would last forever.        

Time isn’t frozen though, and so it does descend slowly at first and then faster and faster. He closes his eyes, looks the other way because he doesn’t want to watch. It’s the seconds before the drop of a roller coaster, it’s clenching your eyes shut and waiting for the pinch of a needle entering a vein. Tim has never been so afraid, Tim has never realized before how much he wants to live.

The hammer lands, he hears bones snap and pop and crumple. For a second there’s an absence of any feeling at all and then it’s fire in every cell of his body. Tim burns and he wonders what will be left. Tim burns and hopes this will be enough to repent for what he’s done.

The hammer lands and Tim screams.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I walk through the valley of the shadow of death  
> I fear no evil cause I'm blind to it all  
> My mind and my gun they comfort me   
> Because I know I'll kill my enemies when they come
> 
> -Through the Valley by Shawn James

The drive to the national forest is only about two hours but it feels like it takes a lifetime. Raylan speeds down the twisting corridor of I-75 with his foot pressed against the accelerator and a reckless look in his eyes. It’s a beautiful drive,the highway surrounded by green forest on either sides, and the sky is blue apart from the occasional puffy white cloud but the anxious pit in Raylan’s stomach keeps him from seeing any of it. Instead he focuses on the grey tarmac ahead of him and the time blinking on the stereo of his car. It’s been 26 hours now. 26 hours, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if this is a dead end.

He doesn’t know why he even cares so much. Of course if any co worker was in danger he would do his best to find them, or if any person was for a matter of fact. That’s his job, it’s who he is. But it goes deeper now then he imagined it would. There’s fear, real and visceral and driving in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know when Tim became more then just a co worker, became more then just somebody he exchanged snarky comments with in the morning. But he did become more, he became a friend and a partner and somebody Raylan truly trusts and respects and there are few of those people in the world, few enough that the thought of losing one of them sits like an iron weight in Raylan’s chest.

And he never really thought about the fact that he was drawing closer to the orbit of Tim’s life. Never thought about how he slowly started to care. Even as he picked up the call from the bartender and drove two counties over to save Tim from an ass kicking, even as he threw a blanket over his shoulders, even as he sat and just listened to the pain the younger man tried to hide. It had always just been the right thing to do, and so Raylan had done it without pause. But beyond that, he realizes now, he did it because he didn’t like to see the pain Tim was in. Because he felt for him, not pity because he hated pity, but empathy because Raylan understood what he was feeling. Not perfectly, not completely, but enough. He understood enough to not want Tim to be alone. And now Tim is alone, alone with men who want something and will do anything to get it. Raylan’s been around the block, he’s seen up close and personal what gets left behind when men like them want something and it’s not pretty. He refuses to let Tim be something left behind in the wake of human cruelty and greed, he owes him that much. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that all the determination in the world sometimes isn’t enough.

His thoughts are interrupted by the crunch of plastic and glass under the tires of his car. He looks into the rearview mirror quick enough to see the remains of what looks like a taillight growing small on the highway behind him. There’s a shock of something in his spine, because maybe this might just be somebody who put off going to the mechanics for a little to long, but maybe this might be the first tangible trace of Tim they’ve found since he disappeared. Maybe this is hope.

 

* * *

 

Maybe 30 minutes after Raylan passes the crushed taillight the GPS in his car instructs him to take exit 75, which Raylan does. For a while he drives through a rural area, green fields dotted with small houses and barns and the occasional cow. He passes a barbeque house and an elementary school before he hits a sign that reads in large white (albeit peeling) letters ‘Welcome to McCreary County’ after another 10 minutes of the same scenery Raylan decides he hates McCreary County. Eventually though the houses become few and far between and are replaced with trees, small at first but growing in size and density the farther Raylan drives. The next sign is smaller, and this one reads simply “Entering Daniel Boone National Forest”. Now the road is enclosed on either side by towering green trees, the only break in the forest the occasional dirt or gravel turn offs. He passes a few of these before he eventually reaches the one he’s looking for. He pulls over, tires bouncing as they leave the paved service of the road and kills the engine. Glancing at the GPS he sees the cabin is only about two miles up the gravel lane from where he os. He figures the element of surprise is one of the few things he has on his side right now and driving a car up to their door probably wouldn’t help with that. Opening his glove box and pulling out his gun which he slides into it’s holster on his hip Raylan adjusts his hat and steps out of his car, closing the door behind him. His feet crunch and shift on the gravel of the drive, and the sun filters down through the canopy of leaves casting shifting patterns on the ground. Pulling out his phone Raylan shoots a quick text off to Rachel to let her know he's here before setting off up the hill. As he walks he tries to tell himself he is not afraid of what he will find, but the truth is he is.

 

* * *

 

Tim wakes to cold water splashed in his face. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, just pain and pain and then nothing. He jerks, body seizing involuntarily out of the chair he’s in till he’s stopped by the tape securing him to it. Spitting water out of his mouth and blinking his eyes to clear them he shakes himself until he jars his hand and then he freezes as agony comes rushing in. It’s sharp and vibrant and overwhelming like the blade of knife and for a few seconds his vision goes dark and it’s all he can focus on. He doesn’t scream though, doesn’t give them that. Finally he manages to get the pain under control, taking short quick breaths air hissing between his clenched teeth. Swallowing hard he looks up to see Brian standing in front of him with an empty bucket and a mean smile on his face.

“Morning sunshine.”

He vaguely remembers his mother saying that too him in the early morning light, her face obscured by the gentling mist of time and her voice soft and gentle. Brian’s is anything but, the once kind and loving words twisted into something cruel and angry. He shivers, the cold water still trickling down his neck and onto his back.

Luckily Brian doesn’t seem to want anything else from him, throwing the bucket to the side and walking away from Tim without a second glance. He disappears down the hallway and Tim hears a door click. He doesn’t know how long he was out for, long enough for the sun to rise and cast the bare little room into harsh relief. He feels hazy, disconnected. The world blurs at the edges, almost spinning when he turns his head to fast. His face hurts, his hand hurts. He wishes he could sleep again, he wishes someone would show up to save him. He doesn’t think either of those things are going to happen. 

He thinks what he hates more then anything is the waiting. When everyone else disappears and leaves him here trapped in this fucking chair with no control, no power over what happens next. Hates the not knowing, the uncertainty. They can do anything they want right now and they know it and he knows it and it makes him sick. But there’s nothing he can do so he sits and waits and tries to ignore the dull ache in his hand. He can’t see the damage, no matter how far he cranes his neck it remains frustratingly out of sight. He’s almost glad, but in the absence of truth his mind creates a series of increasingly horrible visions. He tries carefully wiggling his fingers to try and scope out the extent of the damage but even that sends bolts of lightning shooting up his arm and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds. He doesn’t try it again. From what he can tell though he has a few broken fingers, and who knows what other damage. It’ll be over a month before his hand is at all useable again, and then months of PT after that if he ever regains full range of motion at all. He almost laughs at his prognosis, this is all if he manages to get out of this alive which he’s still not sure he will. All in all this sucks and Tim is ready to go home.

He shifts in the chair, trying to get into a more comfortable position. His shoulders ache from being pulled behind him for what must over 12 hours now. His throat is dry and he can feel his lips starting to crack and his stomach growls. He tries to think of the last time he ate something, he skipped breakfast yesterday morning and dinner the night before had consisted of whiskey and self pity. He tries not to think about what he’s going to do if his hand never heals. It feels like such a part of him now, his rifle and his aim and it’s just what he does. With out it what use is he really? He’s not a bad deputy, but he’s average. The thing that sets him apart, the thing that makes him useful, is his aim. His sniper’s hands. Without it he’s just another average joe going about life as best he can. He'll have no purpose, no release, no reason. He said once "I can’t carry a tune. I don’t know how to shoot a basketball and my handwriting is uh, barely legible. But I don’t _miss_." and that was true. But now, that might now be anymore, and without that what is he? It's a question he's never thought to ask himself before and not one he has an answer for. 

  

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Raylan’s sweating. He can feel it trickling down the back of his neck slow and sluggish and salty. He’d cut off the main gravel path in case one of the men came down, instead opting to bushwack his way through the surrounding forest. It’s fairly thick foliage and the ground is loose and crumbly beneath his feet. He feels like he’s been walking for hours but a quick glance at his watch shows it’s only been about 30 minutes. His only guide towards the cabin is occasional glimpses of slate grey gravel through breaks in the trees. The sun is high above him now hanging in the middle of the sky but the air is crisp and cool. The light it sheds is bright but cold and distant. 

Eventually Raylan crests a particularly steep rise in the forest and when he reaches the top he sees in front of him a small dingy cabin in a clearing in the forest. Sitting in front of it is a car that matches the one described by Mrs. Tucker, a quick glance at the license plate confirms it is the one she saw. The one that took Tim. He can feel his heart beating heavy in his chest but he writes it off as the strenuous hike. As he’s surveying the area the door to the cabin swings open and somebody steps out, Raylan ducks down behind some of the thick shrubbery in front of him, lying flat on the dirt and moss of the forest floor a branch pressed uncomfortably into his chest and the leaves of some small plant brushing against his face. The man rounds the car, coming close to Raylan’s hiding place and he recognizes him from the grainy photo pinned to the board in the office as Hector Valdez. He’s on the phone with somebody, head down and face intent. Raylan’s too far to hear what he’s saying but from his expression and body language it’s not a conversation that’s going well. He moves past Raylan, wandering slowly down the drive and Raylan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Once Valdez is out of sight Raylan rises to a crouch and staying behind the first layer of trees makes his way around towards the back of the cabin. Once he reaches what seems to be the back end he cautiously leaves the cover of the bushs, keeping low to the ground and sprinting across the open area between the forest and the cabin. Once he reaches the wall he slides along it till he’s next to the window that’s set in the center. Taking a deep breath he eases himself up until he can peer over the window sill and into the interior of the cabin.

Inside, sitting taped to a chair is Tim. Alive, and in one piece is Tim. Raylan’s heart skips a beat. 29 hours since Tim was lost, 29 hours alone, 29 hours and still alive. Raylan looks him over as best he can from his vantage. His head is hanging down, face obscured, but Raylan can see what looks like blood stains down the front of his shirt and it makes his jaw tighten. A noise in the house gets Tim’s attention and his head jerks up, looking to the left at something Raylan can’t see. He get’s a good look at Tim’s face now and wishes he hadn’t. It’s purple and blue all over, there’s more bruised skin then not and there are deep bags beneath his eyes and lines of pain in his face. He looks like he’s been hit by a truck. Another man walks into the room, back turned towards the window and stands in front of Tim. He starts to speak, voice muffled by the glass and wood but obviously angry. The man’s voice grows louder and louder and then when he’s obviously yelling he reaches behind him hand disappearing under the baggy t-shirt he’s wearing and when it appears again he’s holding a Smith & Wesson 9MM. He shifts on his feet, a little to the right and reveals a tight lipped Tim with the gun half pointed at his chest

Automatically Raylan’s hand goes to his side and he pulls his own weapon, releasing the safety. He keeps his eyes on the situation inside though, carefully watching the unknown man’s finger drift towards the trigger of his gun, watches as he sways on his feet nervously. Tim’s saying something now, Raylan can see his lips moving but no sound echoes in his ears. It’s like watching a film on mute, trapped on the outside of the TV screen and guessing at the plot. What exactly is going inside Raylan isn’t sure of but it isn’t good that much is clear. The gun is making it’s way up now, from Tim’s stomach to his neck till it’s at the same level as his face. Tim isn’t talking anymore, his eyes flicking back and forth from his captor to the gun in front of him quicker and quicker.

Raylan knows there’s a choice to be made here, and normally he doesn’t have trouble with those but for some reason now he is. Maybe it’s because this isn’t just any situation, Tim’s life is riding on the line here and that’s a heavy weight to carry. For whatever reason he’s uncertain. He stays there, crouched by the window with his gun in his hand and wavers and watches and feels his heart pound in his chest.

In the end though, he doesn’t have a choice. In the end there never was one. It all happens in the blink of the eye, no time for weighing outcomes or rational decisions it’s just thought and instinct and years of training. Something shifts in the man, his shoulders tense he stops swaying and yelling. Raylan can feel a decision being made inside. The mans finger goes for the trigger intent clear and in that moment Tim looks outside and his eyes lock with Raylan’s and there is no choice when he sees the fear and more frighteningly the resignation in those eyes. Before he knows what’s happened he’s standing and pulling the trigger. His glock fires with a crack and the man inside crumples, red spreading across his back like a splash of paint in water.

Still acting half on instinct and adrenaline Raylan grabs his gun by the barrel and smashes the window in with the stock before clambering into the cabin. He feels glass slice the palm of his hand but barely registers the pain. He’s barely inside before a second man rushes into the small room gun raised. Raylan gets him twice, once in the neck and once in the upper chest and he drops, hands clutching at the bleeding wound in his throat. He chokes and writhes and finally stills eyes wide and blank. All in all it takes maybe 60 seconds from the first man to go for his trigger to the second to die on the dirty brown carpet. There’s a moment of silence before Tim’s voice cuts through it.

 

“Well I see you aren’t going for the subtle approach now are you.”'

 

* * *

Raylan turns, lips pulled into a smirk and gun still in his hand

“No offense Tim, but you look like shit.”

Tim grins and spits out a string of bloody saliva, letting his head thump against the back of his chair.

“You should see the other guy.”

 “Well the thing is Tim, I’m lookin’ at two of them right now and they seem to be pretty okay to me. Aside from the whole being dead part.”

 Tim looks down at Raylan again and god, he’s never been so glad to see Raylan’s cowboy hat before not that he'd ever let him know. 

“It was a bit of an unfair fight I’ll admit.”

 “Oh, is that what you call being taped to a chair and beaten to a pulp? A bit of an unfair fight?”

 Tim lets out a short laugh and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“I had them right where I wanted them.”

Raylan raises an eyebrow.

“Of course you did.”

It’s funny because Tim doesn’t know how to feel right at the moment. He’d imagined this moment over and over while he’d been stuck in this cabin but now it’s here he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. A minute ago he’d been certain he was going to die alone and unsure in this cabin and he’d accepted it and now Raylan’s here and he’s going to live and the whole thing leaves him feeling off center.

Raylan’s moving toward him now, holstering his gun and starting to kneel at Tim’s side.

“We need to go, Valdez probably heard the shots.”

He reaches down towards the tape around Tim’s wrists and Tim flinches away instinctively. Raylan looks up confusion on his face.

“My hand… Just be careful with my hand.”

Raylan looks back down and Tim can see the exact moment Raylan sees it. His face tightens and his eyebrows draw together, expression stormy. He looks up again and there’s no more confusion on his face just anger.

“Jesus, Tim, what did they do?”

“There was a hammer.”

Raylan shakes his head and swears low and hard.

“Those fuckers”

He reaches back down to Tim’s wrists and despite the anger in his voice his hands are gentle. Tim winces a little letting out a hiss as Raylan bumps his right hand and he feels broken bones shift and grind. Raylan flinches, pulling his hands back and letting them hover hesitantly near Tim’s. Tim gives him a small nod, urging him on. Raylan returns to work and Tim grits his teeth and rides out the pain. After of a few seconds of fiddling Raylan swears again and shakes his head. 

“I can’t get it loose. I need a knife or something.”

Tim gestures with his chin towards Brian’s still body.

“He should have one. Check his back pockets.”

Raylan nods and moves over rummaging through the dead man’s pockets and producing a knife. He flicks the blade out and starts to turn to face Tim, standing as he does. He’s about halfway to standing when Tim glances over his shoulder out the window. He expects to see trees and grass and sky but instead he sees the blank face of Hector Valdez with a gun pointed squarely at Raylan’s back. It’s a strange parody of earlier when he had looked out the same window to see Raylan’s face peeking over the sill and for a second he’s frozen stricken by the oddity of the moment. Then time jerks back into motion with brutal efficiency.

“Raylan behind you!”

Raylan looks behind him, throwing his body to the right as he does and twisting his torso around to face the window gun already drawn. There’s the report of a pistol and then a second later another, the sounds echoing around the small cabin. Valdez drops disappearing to the ground outside with a neat hole in his forehead and then Raylan hits the floor awkwardly on his back with a soft thud. For a second the cabin is silent except for the sound of Raylan’s short breaths and then he lets out a long sigh and sits himself up. His hat had fallen off during the action and he picks it up from the ground next to him, brushing it off lightly and placing it back on his head before pushing himself to his feet. Holstering his weapon for the second time he starts to turn to Tim again,

 

“Well holy shit…”

 

The words die in his mouth though as he completes his turn trailing off to nothing. There’s a look in his eyes Tim’s never seen before, a look of true fear and shock and uncertainty. His gaze is locked somewhere beneath Tim’s face, on his torso. There’s suddenly a sick feeling in Tim’s stomach, a feeling that something’s very very wrong. Still Raylan is silent, Tim wants to ask what’s the matter but suddenly he’s afraid what the answer is going to be. Has a feeling he already knows what it is. 

 

Slowly, carefully, Tim looks down.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold my hand,  
> Ooh, baby, it's a long way down to the bottom of the river  
> Hold my hand,  
> Ooh, baby, it's a long way down, a long way down
> 
> -Bottom of the River by Delta Rae

Tim has been a lot of places and seen a lot of things (not all of them pretty) and he’d always figured he’d die before he was fifty. Wasn’t something that he thought about too much, just a fact that had settled in the back of his mind like sediment at the bottom of a river. And he hasn’t thought a lot about how he was going to die, but in his line of work he’d guessed it was probably going to be a bullet that did him in, he didn’t mind that so much. He’d put a fair amount of bullets in people himself and he figured what goes around comes around. The part of him that was still a little boy watching action movies on TV and dreaming of car chases and old western shoot outs imagined that he’d be doing something dramatic, saving a hostage (probably a pretty blonde woman in her mid twenties) maybe or going all lone ranger on a dangerous escaped felon. Tim thinks that he got half of it right, it is a bullet that’s going to kill him. The other half, well lets just say Tim never though he’d be dying tied to a chair in a shithole cabin in the ass end of nowhere Kentucky with the best lawman he knows (and he really must be dying if he’s letting himself think that about Raylan) inches away from him. He looks down at the hole in his side and the steadily growing pool of blood in the seat of the chair and feels a shiver run down his spine but it isn't because he's cold. 

“Take me outside. I don’t want to die in this fucking cabin.”

Raylan just keeps working at the ducktape around his left ankle, face closed off and focused.

“Raylan listen to me for once in your life goddammit.”

His voice comes out a lot weaker then he wanted, more of a feeble waver then the imposing command he was going for but it finally gets Raylan to look up at him.

“We shouldn’t move you before the paramedics get here, don’t want to make things worse.”

Tim just shakes his head in frustration, ignoring the way the room spins when he does.

“I don’t think you could make things worse if you tried. Anyways, I’ve saved your cowboy ass one too many times for you not to listen to me. Just take me outside, please.”

And Raylan must see something in his eyes, because he sighs and frowns but nods reluctantly.

“All right, all right. But you’re not going to die inside or outside, you drama queen. I thought rangers were tougher then this." 

Tim glares, or shoots a pointed stare at least. It’s a little hard to seem intimidating when you’re duc taped to a chair and bleeding rather copiously. 

“That’s right, insult the guy with a bullet in him.”

Raylan, as per usual, ignores him. He finishes freeing Tim’s limbs from the chair, it's remarkably difficult to cut through the thick silver tape even with Townshend’s knife and Tim has to restrain a bubble of hysterical laughter as he thinks of a new slogan for duc tape “perfect for restraining the people you kidnap” Throwing the small knife on the floor Raylan stands and loops one of his arms under Tim’s armpits, bracing the other on the back of the chair. He’s careful to avoid shifting Tim’s injured hand as he moves. 

“You ready?

“As I’ll ever be.”

When Raylan first tugs him up the pain is blinding, all encompassing, and for a second Tim thinks he’s going to puke. Sitting immobile in the chair he had settled into comfortable numbness but now as the muscles and skin of his torso bend and twist the agony returns with a vengeance. He feels his fingers tighten on Raylan’s arm, fingernails digging into cloth and muscle. Raylan, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He just looks at Tim concerned.

“You okay? Lookin’ a lil green around the gills.”

Tim nods tightly, focusing on keeping his insides where they belong.

“M’ fine. Just keep going.”

Tim tries to keep his feet under him and walk but Raylan ends up half dragging him out the door as his legs fold, carefully skirting the bodies of Tim’s newly deceased captors. Once they’re outside he lays him carefully on the grass, one hand behind Tim’s head so it doesn’t bounce when it hits the ground. Tim looks up at the sky, because there’s nowhere else to look really when you’re laying flat out on your back. It’s a lovely day, and the sky is a bright clear blue. The color of robin’s eggs or thick ice, it’s almost blinding in its piercing beauty and Tim has to resist the urge to turn his head away. He doesn’t though, just opens his eyes wide and lets pure blue sear into his retinas and burn away the darkness of the cabin. It reminds him of the desert, desert sky is some of the most beautiful he’s ever seen. No light pollution to cover the stars in the night and no clouds during the day. It reminds him of the desert, and right now everything’s blurring together and it’s hard to tell Afghanistan and Kentucky apart. It’s not sand he’s laying on though, he reminds himself. It’s soft earth and grass and when he inhales he doesn’t smell sweat or gas or gunmetal but the scent of decomposing leaves and wet dirt and behind it the thick metallic stench of blood (that’s something that followed him home from the war, but it’s one stink Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of) all in all it’s not a bad smell, rich and fertile and full of the promise of new life. It makes him think of a quote he once read “from my rotting body flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity” He tells Raylan as much, and he just looks at him funny and snorts

“I think the blood loss is going to your head Gutterson.”

He hopes they bury him somewhere nice, hopes they let flowers grow on his grave.

And he supposes he should be a little more upset about this whole dying thing but the truth he came to terms with his own mortality a long time ago watching a bullet enter the head of a man (a kid Tim corrects himself) in a country far from anywhere they’d call home. He’d accepted his death then and it had been a little bit of a surprise when he’d come back, he hadn’t really known what to do with the life the universe had so graciously given him. So he’d gone back to doing what he’d done best and joined the marshal service and in the end it led back to the same result he’d expected so long ago. So he’s already accepted his death, now all that’s left is to just…slip away. He has to admit for all it’s inbred red-neck fuckery Kentucky sure can be damn beautiful, and he doesn’t mind that the last thing he’s going to see is green leaves against robin’s egg sky. He’s just drifting off when persistent hands slap at his face. For a second he jerks away, thinking of less then friendly slaps earlier today but then he remembers Raylan. Of course, Raylan is there and he’s dead set on not letting him have the elegant peaceful death he’s wishing for.

Instead his persistent hands are everywhere, behind Tim’s neck, cupping his cheek, on the bleeding hole in his side. It’s an annoyance, like buzzing flies or the itch of a healing scab and he weakly tries to reach up and slap the hands away but Raylan presses his arm firmly back down. His smooth drawling voice is quiet but insistent in the background.

“Now you hold on just a bit longer, ambulance will be here any minute now.”

Tim wants to tell him any minute now will be to late to do anything, but his lips won’t form the words so he just shakes and shivers instead. 

“Feelin’ a little cold”

Raylan gives him a little smirk, but it’s nowhere near the strength of his usual sarcastic smile and somehow it just makes Tim feel sad. His hands are burning on the skin of Tim’s neck.

“You think you’re gonna get my jacket out of me with that half assed act? Normally I only give it up for beautiful ladies.”

Tim coughs out a little laugh and shrugs.

“Figured it was worth a try, always been told I was pretty for a boy.”

Raylan just shakes his head. 

“Even if I was willing my jacket is otherwise engaged in trying to plug the hole you managed to get in you.” 

He says, wadding up aforementioned jacket and pressing it to Tim’s bleeding torso. Tim knows this should hurt, but it doesn’t and he can’t find the energy to be concerned. Raylan knows it to, and from the look on his face when Tim doesn’t react he knows it’s not a good sign. He presses a little harder. A small logical part of Tim’s mind is categorizing all his symptoms, the numbness, the shivering, how cold he feels. All signs of shock, signs his organs are starting to shut down. He remembers in basic training what they were always told to do if injured, pressure on the wound, elevation of injured limb, and rest. He doesn’t think any amount of elevation is going to do any good at this point. 

Raylan’s still talking he realizes. His voice a static filled hum in the background that fades in and out like a bad radio signal. Tim isn’t sure what he’s saying anymore, probably something annoying and Raylanish like “Oh this isn’t so bad, nothing a couple of stitches and a shot of bourbon won’t heal right up.” A small part of Tim thinks this might not be entirely fair to the person who is currently the only thing standing between him and bleeding out at an exceedingly rapid pace but, he tells himself, he’s the one with a bullet lodged in him so he’s allowed to be a little bit unfair. Raylan won’t stop though, and it bothers him because he just wants to die with a little quiet around him goddammit. 

“It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with this.”

Raylan just stares at him, and he looks undone in a way Tim’s never seen before. All the bravado and swagger and sarcasm that normally exudes from Raylan like a second skin is gone and Tim thinks that for the first time, sitting in this Kentucky forest with his hands covered in Tim’s blood he’s seeing the real Raylan Givens. He has to admit he’s a little in awe that he has the power to strip away all the armor Raylan’s built around himself, to uncover the man behind the legend. To bad he’s going to die before he has a chance to do anything with this discovery. To late to decide if he likes Raylan the man, who is vulnerable and afraid like the rest of them, better then he likes Raylan Givens United States Marshal. Raylan’s voice when it sounds in Tim’s ear is raw and harsh and it occurs to Tim that he’s trying not to cry. His hand comes up to Tim’s face again, brushes the hair from his eyes and it’s almost gentle. The absurdity of this situation hits home then, Raylan fucking Givens turned crybaby over him, and the world spins. 

“Well I haven’t. I’ve lost too many goddamn people to go and lose another to something as stupid as this. So you better goddamn fight, and that’s an order.” 

Tim wants to make a snarky comment about how Raylan’s in no position to be giving him orders, but he’s just so tired now. The thought of opening his mouth and forming words seems like too much to ask. Something, though, about the pain in Raylan’s voice, the hollow ringing truth in it, cuts through the haze of blood loss and shock and lights something in him. Unfortunately Tim thinks it might be a case of to little to late because even if he wanted to fight he’s not sure he has anything left to fight with. He closes his eyes, just for a second and feels hard knuckles pressing into his sternum. He winces and glares at Raylan 

“Come on now sleeping beauty, don’t check out on me yet.”

Tim doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, not the aches and bruises, not his mangled his hand, not the bullet in his side, not even Raylan’s hands so gentle and persistent. He discovers that dying feels a lot like being drunk, except that you don’t have to worry about a hangover the next day, you don’t have to worry about much anything at all. He lets his head loll comfortably to the side. His thinking’s gone all circular, one thought looping round to the next and back again, things stringing together in all sorts of nonsense ways. Tim’s always been linear, one thought leads to another and straight on down the line. There’s a threat, he’ll eliminate it, move on to the next one and so on so forth. People (Raylan) always said he lacked a little imagination but it had always worked for him. He thinks he picked it up over seas. In a war it doesn’t do you any good to have imagination, especially not when you spend three days watching somebody just so you can blow the back of their head out. Imagination fills in all the things that make them human, and that just makes it worse in the end. In a war there was just an order, a target, and a trigger and Tim couldn’t let anything get in the way of that. He remembers being a kid, remembers pirate forts in the forest behind his house and secret passages to faraway worlds and thinks it hasn’t always been this way. That was a long time ago though.

There’s a little flower, about an inch from his nose, pushing it’s way through tree debris and curling dead leaves reaching for the sun. It’s small and plain, just a white daisy, but it’s the most beautiful thing Tim’s seen. Each petal so hopeful and fragile and resilient all at once. He doesn’t realize he’s crying till he tastes salt on his lips and he almost laughs at the fact that Tim Gutterson, two tour veteran, sniper extraordinaire, and all around bad ass has been reduced to crying at a simple mountain wild flower. He hopes that his blood will water this flower and it will grow and live and from it Tim’s death will mean something. 

It’s funny the things you think about when you’re dying, funny the things that seem important in the end (he thinks about Rachel and her smart mouth, her kind smile and kinder eyes thinks about Art and the way he always looked out for Tim, even when he didn’t really understand him) He wants to tell Raylan to look at this little flower, wants him to see its beauty in the same way Tim does but he doesn’t know how to say the words. Raylan’s hands are on his face again, tilting his head up till he’s looking at him and that stupid cowboy hat he’s always wearing.

“Hey, Tim, keep those eyes open you hear me?”

Tim wants to tell Raylan he’s trying, there’s a lot of things he wants to tell Raylan. That he forgives him, that grudging respect (and a healthy dose of dislike) has turned into genuine admiration, that he thinks if they had more time they might have even been friends. But Tim doesn’t think he has enough time to say all that or any of it at all. Raylan’s not looking at him, he’s staring down the road like he’s searching for something in it and so Tim reaches out and grabs him by the collar, pulls him down close. His hand leaves a crimson smear on Raylan’s shirt (and it’s the color of the sky, such a pretty color)

“I’m glad it’s you in the end.”

And surprisingly enough, it’s the truth. Maybe it’s because of all the people in Tim’s life, Raylan’s the only one not to try and fix him, never saw him as broken in the first place. He’d listened to Tim and passed no judgment. He respected him because Tim had earned his respect and not because of some misplaced sense of patriotic duty. And Raylan seemed to understand him, better then anyone who he hadn’t served with. And maybe that’s because Raylan understood war, even if he’d never been in a warzone, Raylan understood Tim was more the a rifle scope and a trigger. Understood what it was to grow up with nothing and fight tooth and nail for everything he had now. And sometimes Tim felt he had found a kindred spirit in the laconic, swaggering marshal from Harlan County.

Tim had never given much thought to who he wanted to be there when he died. He had no family to speak of, no girlfriend, only a few close friends from his army days or work, he certainly never thought of Raylan Given’s as a deathbed companion -Raylan had all the bedside manner of a chimpanzee- but lying there with Raylan’s hot hands on him and face that tried so hard not to look desperate (tried so hard and failed) he thinks it feels right. He looks at the blue sky, the little white flower beside his head and smiles. Tim thinks that he’s spent his whole life hanging on tight to things, white knuckled and screaming. Spent his whole afraid of falling, afraid of what might happen if he stopped holding on. He doesn’t feel so afraid anymore. Sirens fill the air with a muted hum, Raylan’s voice echoes distant and tinny. Tim takes a deep breath, feels his eyes drift shut, and lets go.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does the night time hold you tight?  
> Is your heart like a pound of steel?  
> Will the darkness kill the light  
> Closer to the bottom of a turnin'
> 
> \- In the Branches by The Builders and the Butchers

“I’m glad it was you in the end.” 

The words whisper from between Tim’s lips, more sigh then anything else. Raylan has to strain his ears just to catch them, but he does and they make his blood run cold. Because this is not the end, this can't be the end. 

Two things happen in very quick succession after those words. First, Tim stops breathing, and second the air fills with the sound of helicopter blades and wind whips at Raylan faces. Looking up he sees the helivac filling the sky above them and making a slow descent. Holding on to his hat to make sure it doesn’t fly away Raylan watches as the helicopter skillfully lands in the clearing in front of them and two paramedics jump out with a stretcher held in between them. The arrival of the helicopter is followed closely by two squad cars, sirens wailing and suddenly the quiet forest clearing is filled with noise and movement, the ground dyed flashing red and blue. It feels surreal to Raylan, the colors washed out and pale against the harsh brightness of the police lights like a bad photo edit.

For a second time is frozen, and all Raylan can do is sit and wait and wait and wait for a breath that doesn’t come and Tim’s face is so still and pale and his skin is cold against Raylan’s palm. Then the moment breaks and still Tim doesn’t breath and Raylan is being pushed aside by EMT’s who swarm around the fallen marshall like flies to honey. Within the space of a few minutes they have Tim on a stretcher and are bundling him into the helicopter. Raylan pushes himself to his feet and goes to follow but one of the EMT’s puts a hand out and shakes his head,

“I’m not going to bullshit you, he might crash on the way to the hospital the way his vitals are looking right now and we can’t have you in there if that happens. I’m sorry, you’ll have to follow behind.

Raylan nods numbly and watches the man climb back into the helicopter with Tim and gesture to the pilot, the copter pulling up and disappearing back into the sky. The whole thing takes maybe five minutes, five minutes between when Tim stopped breathing until he was whisked away. He’s left standing in the dust, hands hanging limply by his sides and his heart a block of ice in his chest. He gives himself another minute of numbness and then the world snaps back into place around him like a rubber band pulled to tight, reality stinging and bitter. He turns quickly to one of the officers now standing in the clearing beside him 

“My cars down by the highway, can you give me a ride.” 

It’s a question but it comes out like a command and the older man nods his head shortly and heads back towards one of the squad cards.

“Hop in.”

* * *

 Raylan doesn’t consider himself a fidgety person, prides himself on his ability to stay calm and balanced in most situations but on the short ride down to his car he can’t stop his fingers from tapping at his leg each in a short staccato beat. He stares out the window, watches trees rush by and still his fingers tap. After a few minutes the officer driving breaks the silence.

“The guy that got shot, he your partner?”

Without thinking Raylan nods, and a second after is surprised to realize it’s true. Somehow, somewhere along the line he and Tim had become partners in the truest sense of the word.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I lost a partner a few years back. Never really got over it if I’m honest, still think about her every day. I hope he pulls through man, I really do.”

Raylan doesn’t look at him, still staring out the window because he doesn’t want to say that he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do if Tim dies. He’ll continue on, as he always does, but there will be mark left that time cannot erase. He hopes he doesn’t have to find out what that mark will look like. Doesn't want to see the hole Tim's absence will leave in his life. Doesn't want to think about the empty desk beside his, witty jokes that will be left hanging in the air with no reply, how the comforting knowledge that Tim and his frightening accuracy always had his back in the field. And that was what it boiled down to in the end, Tim had somehow earned Raylan's trust fully and completely. Sure they had their fair share of disagreements and sometimes Raylan wanted to smack the smirk right off of Tim's face but at the end of the day he trusted him to always have his back and that was a rare thing, especially in Raylan's line of work. A rare thing, and a hard thing and not something Raylan wanted to lose now or ever. 

When they reach the beginning of the gravel path Raylan barely waits for the car to roll to a stop before he jumps out, giving a nod and a quick word of thanks to the officer driving it. Throwing open the door to his town car he gets in and digs the keys out of his pocket and sticking them in the ignition. He stops for a moment to send a text to Art giving an update on the situation before he throws the car into drive and pulls out onto the highway with a spray of gravel. He flicks the sirens on, and puts the gas pedal to the floor.

The hospital is about an hour and half drive from the cabin but Raylan makes it in an hour by breaking a considerable number of traffic laws along the way. He doesn’t let himself think it’s because he’s afraid if he goes to slow all he’ll find when he arrives is a dead body. Afraid that those words Tim had whispered to him in that quiet forest had been his last, carried on a breath precious in it’s fleeting absence. Raylan is afraid, afraid, afraid of so many things and now Raylan is afraid of Tim and the blood on his hands and whether he will ever be able to wash them clean if his friend dies. But he can't save Tim, can't go back in time and stop this from happening, can't change a damn thing. All he can do is drive, so he does. 

 

* * *

 

 

Raylan pulls in front of the hospital, switching the lights off with a quick flick of his hand. He manages to get a parking spot right by the entrance and he quickly makes his way inside to the emergency room, it’s not quite a run but he’s not walking either. Threading through the waiting people to the front desk he clears his throat to get the attention of the nurse sitting in front of the computer. She looks up and raises her eyebrows a little in shock but Raylan doesn’t have time to wonder why that might be.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a US Marshal, should have come in in the last hour. His names Tim, Tim Gutterson.”

She nods, looking uncertainly away from Raylan and back towards her computer typing something, her nails clack against the keyboard. Raylan can feel his fingers drumming on the laminate of the desk and wishes they would stop. After a second she looks back up, 

“Looks like he’s in pre-op right now. If you want to wait a doct-”

Raylan doesn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence because down the hall through a pair of swinging doors he sees Tim, just for a second, but he sees him and before he knows what he’s doing he’s set off down the corridor walking at first but as he gets closer he speeds up till he’s jogging down the hall of the hospital. Vaguely he hears the nurse shouting at him from behind but he ignores her, focused on the face of his friend. He reaches the swinging doors and pushes them open, much to the surprise of the blue scrubbed nurses and doctors who are standing inside. At his sudden entrance they all swing around to stare with wide surprised eyes. For a second nobody moves and Raylan gets a clear view of Tim. Tim who is lying on the table in the middle of the room like a corpse. His legs are covered with a sheet but it’s folded down to reveal his bare torso. It’s a horror show, mottled blue and purple all over and Raylan’s eyes drift down the gauze covering the hole in Tim’s abdomen which is stained frighteningly red. There’s an IV in his arm and an oxygen mask covering his mouth, a heart monitor beeps in the background a steady beat. And Tim’s face is slack and still and pale, paler even then when he was lying on the ground bleeding out through Raylan’s fingers and he looks dead and Raylan feels sick.

Then the front desk nurse bursts through the doors behind Raylan and suddenly the whole world swings back into motion. She’s still talking at him, and the people in the room surge forward like waves in the ocean blocking Tim from Raylan’s view with a wall of people. There are hands on him now, and he finally pays attention to the nurses words.  

“Sir, sir I’m sorry but you can’t be in here you need to leave.”

He nods, breathing out an apology and lets her lead him out to the waiting room and sit him down in a chair.

“A doctor will be out to speak to you shortly, just stay here until then.”

“Alright, thank you.”

With that she disappears down the hallway and leaves Raylan to wait. He sits in the chair for a little, hands clasped on his knees and staring and nothing and then he can’t sit anymore so he gets up and paces up and down the length of the waiting area. There are a few other people in the waiting room looking as haggard and worried as Raylan feels, he can feel their stares on him and pretends he doesn't notice. Maybe 20 minutes later a tall man in a surgeons scrubs walks over to Raylan and reaches out a hand which Raylan shakes.

“I’m assuming you’re here for Deputy Gutterson?”

Raylan nods.

“I’m Dr. Taylor I’ll be the one operating on your partner today, under the circumstances I won’t say it’s nice to meet you Deputy…?”

“Raylan Givens.”

“Deputy Givens. I thought I’d let you know where your partners at right now. Currently we’re prepping him for surgery, he’d lost a lot of blood and his vitals weren’t stable enough to operate but we’ve finished a transfusion and he should be ready to go. The operation is fairly simple, the bullet managed to miss his vital organs so we’re just going to go in and remove the fragments and stitch up any damage we find. The only concern right now is blood loss and the previous injuries he sustained which will make the operation higher risk. Over all though I’d say he has a good chance of pulling through.”

Raylan can't help the little sigh of relief that whistles through his lips at the surgeons words. 

“Thanks for letting me know, doc.”

“Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go prep for the OR. Once I finish the surgery I’ll update you on his condition.”

Raylan nods and watches the surgeon walk away and disappear deeper into the hospital and then he is alone once more. He sits again, crosses his arms across his chest and settles back into the plastic seat and decides that who ever designed hospital chairs deserves a firm kick to the nuts. He sits there and suddenly he’s so damn tired. In the day or so since Tim had been taken Raylan had run on adrenaline and fear and now Tim is safe and the search is over and all of that is gone and he’s just tired. Tired and still afraid. Raylan waits for another half an hour or so before he hears his name called out across the room. Looking up he sees Art and Rachel walk in, matching looks of concern and exhaustion drawing lines into their faces. When they see Raylan their eyes widen and Rachel lets out a little gasp of air.

“Oh my god, are you alright Raylan?”

He looks back at them in confusion, watching their eyes fix below his face. He follows their gaze and looks down at his body and suddenly understands. He’s covered in blood. It’s on his hands, soaked into the knees and legs of his jeans, there’s a bright smear along the collar of his shirt. All at once he can smell it, thick and rusty.

“I’m fine. It’s not mine.”

He doesn’t say whose it is but Rachel and Art are smart enough to put two and two together. Art pales and Rachel’s face tightens a little.

All of a sudden Raylan feels an intense need to get the blood off of him, the smell and feel making him sick. It’s funny because Raylan’s no stranger to blood, he’s had his hands dyed red before with better friends blood and even his own but he’s never felt this disgusted, this afraid. With a quick excuse to Art and Rachel he makes his way to the nearest bathroom and turns on the tap as hot as it can go. There’s not much to be done about his clothes but Raylan puts his hands under the water and scrubs as hard as he can, scrubs and scrubs and the water runs pink against the porcelain bowl. He wonders how much blood a person can lose and still live, wonders how much of Tim is soaked into his fucking jeans right now. Raylan scrubs until his hands are red and raw and the water runs clear. When he looks on the mirror he sees that somehow he managed to get some on his face, a bright streak along his left cheekbone like some garish imitation of face paint. He scrubs that away too and then stands with his hands clenching the side of sink so tight his knuckles go white. He takes a breath and counts to ten and tries not to look at the blood on his jeans and then walks back out to Rachel and Art.

Art gives him a discerning look, eyebrows pulling tight.

“You doing alright, Raylan?”

Raylan nods shortly, restrains the urge to laugh at that question because how could he be alright when his pants are covered in Tim's blood and only two hours ago his friend was bleeding out underneath his hands and he still feels that somehow it's his fault. He doesn't say that though because now isn't the time for self doubt or guilt, it's the time to be strong. 

“Yeah I’m fine.” 

Art doesn’t seem to believe him but he lets the topic go and Raylan’s glad because he really doesn't want to talk about why he's not okay. “How's he doing?”

 Raylan shrugs a little 

“He… he isn't good. They messed him up pretty bad.”

Raylan rubs at his face trying to scrub away the memory of Tim’s bruised face, the way he flinched away when Raylan went cut him loose. Art’s voice is serious and quiet,

“Raylan, honestly, how bad.”

“Well they fucking shot him. And his hand Art, they broke his hand with a fucking hammer.” 

Art swears under his breath, face paling. Rachel’s hand flies up to cover her mouth. 

“Jesus. Those bastards.” 

Raylan nods silently and he can feel his own face tightening with anger at the thought and he thinks the men he killed didn’t deserve the bullets they got. His fists clench at his side and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of pain run up his arm and something warm and wet sliding through his fingers from his palm. He looks down to see blood dripping onto the floor. 

“Raylan, your hand.

Rachel exclaims and reaching forward she takes his hand in hers and gently unfolds his fingers and cradles his palm. There’s a long cut across the center of his hand blood seeping out and pooling bright and fresh. He vaguely remembers glass slicing through skin as he vaulted through the cabin window but he’d forgotten the wound in the chaos that followed. Rachel sucks her breath in through her teeth,

“That looks deep, probably needs stitches. You should get it looked at Raylan.”

He waves her off, shaking his head.

“It’s fine, doesn’t even hurt anymore. I can wait.”

At first Rachel seems like she’s going to flare up at him but then her face softens with something that looks like understanding.

“There’s nothing you can do here, it’ll take a few minutes to clean up and then you can back and wait. He won’t die while you’re gone you know. Art will stay here to wait for any news.”

Art nods and crosses his arms definitively.

“I’ll be here, now go get stitched up Raylan. Doesn’t make sense to have two of my deputies bleeding everywhere. Although I’m not surprised you two managed… Jesus, you two are gonna give me an aneurism someday.”

And despite the situation Raylan can’t help but grin at the disgruntled look on his boss’s face. You can aways count on Art to turn any situation into a lecture, and somehow the familiarity of the situation, the almost tender exasperation in Art’s expression takes away a little of the fear in Raylan’s stomach. He’s glad he doesn’t have to wait alone.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own affliction  
> I am my own disease  
> There ain't no drug that they could sell  
> Ah, there ain't no drug to make me well
> 
> -Mess of Me by Switchfoot

The first time Tim wakes up he doesn’t even open his eyes. He feels numb, disconnected from his body like he’s floating somewhere nearby instead, removed from the physical world. He doesn’t feel much, there’s pain in his chest and hand and stomach but it’s far away like it’s happening to somebody else and he wonders if he’s dead, wonders if he’ still alive. He didn’t think dying would feel like this. He can hear people talking but they sound echoey and far away like the words are filtering to his ears from under water. He thinks he recognizes Art’s voice but he can’t be sure and before he can focus on it the darkness returns and he slips away.

The second time he’s alone. He opens his eyes for a second but the white of the room is blinding and bare and sends shooting pains into the back of his skull so he closes them again, squeezing them tight. Bright flashes of light twist and scintillate across the back of his eyelids like fireworks and make his head spin. It’s then he realizes he’s burning, there’s a fire deep inside his belly and it’s crawling up his chest and down his arms till every cell is set alight. He wants to scream but there’s something in his throat and suddenly he wants to escape the bed he’s in, the blinding white room and it’s blinding hollow emptiness, wants to escape the fire that’s in his bones. He struggles against the sheets suddenly suffocated by the scent of fresh linen and disinfectant. He wants to breathe real air, wants to smell dirt and grass and tree and see something other then fucking white. He puts his hand out to push himself up and suddenly pain clamps an icy fist around his hand, he lets out a strangled cry and collapses back into the mattress. Then he looks down and sees his right hand engulfed in bulky white bandages. He looks down and suddenly he remembers, remembers the hammer and the pain and the arms holding him down and his heart is in his throat because he _remembers._ Somewhere in the distance alarms start to wail and there’s a commotion in the hall but he doesn’t care because he can’t move his fingers and his hand hurts and then there are arms on him again pushing him down and he fights and fights but there are too many and he’s to weak and eventually the noise fades away and the fire goes dark.

The third time he wakes up it’s like waking up from a long sleep, gentle and slow he drifts his way into consciousness. When he finally opens his eyes he turns his head to see Raylan, lanky form folded awkwardly into a plastic hospital chair. His arms are crossed in front of his chest like he’s holding the world at bay, or maybe just holding himself together. He looks tired, there are lines etched into his face that Tim doesn’t recognize and heavy dark bags under his eyes. Even as he sleeps he seems tense and sharp, all angles and corners. He stays quiet, not wanting to wake the other deputy because its obvious he hasn’t been doing much sleeping lately. Instead he shifts, trying to get more comfortable in the stiff cool hospital bed and he feels a sharp bright pain in his abdomen as he does, the mattress squeaks and cracks beneath his body as he moves. At the noise Raylan startles awake, eyes flying open and body tensing as he sits up in his chair. His eyes dart wildly around the room for a moment before they finally settle on Tim. Raylan relaxes, just a little, and lets out a long breath that whistles through his front teeth.

“So, you’re finally awake.”

Raylan’s voice is rough and low, like he hasn’t been sleeping.

“How long?”

His own voice is rough to match, words scratching at his throat like sandpaper. He wonders how long it’s been since he’s spoken. Raylan shrugs softly, rubbing at his face.

“Four days,”

He glances down at his watch,

“A few more hours and you would have made five.”

Tim nods numbly, looks away because Raylan’s gaze is a little too searching and it’s making him uncomfortable. Raylan sits in silence like he’s waiting for Tim to offer something up but Tim stays silent. He feels fuzzy, black and grey static fills his head like a T.V. turned to the wrong channel. His hand hurts, he feels it a dull ache that winds its way up his arm. He wants to go back to sleep. Finally Raylan breaks the silence,

“You really scared the shit out of us. You managed to get an infection, first couple of days were touch and go. First time you woke up you nearly tore your stitches out flailing around, doctor’s had to hold you down to get a sedative in.”

Tim swallows hard, vaguely remembering feelings of blind panic and too bright lights, grasping arms. He shivers like a dog shaking water from it’s coat, trying to shake the memories off. He looks down at the bulky bandages on his right hand and something in his stomach flips.

“How bad is it?”

Raylan doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about, they both know. He shrugs again, more uncomfortably this time.

“I’m not a doctor, I shouldn’t say anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me Raylan, how bad is it.”

Raylan sighs, rubs at the stubble on his chin. When he tells him though, he looks him in the eye and Tim appreciates that.

“They broke the third and fourth metacarpal bones, fractured another two. Doctor says you’ll regain use of the hand with some PT but there’s goin’ to be some permanent nerve damage.”

Tim doesn’t look at Raylan while he speaks because he’s afraid he’ll see pity in his face and he thinks that might break him.

“What does that mean.”

“Uhmm, it means weakened grip, reduced movement in the hand, recurring pain, arthritis. It- it doesn’t mean anything good.”

Tim nods. When he finally looks over at Raylan his gaze is searching, like he’s just waiting for Tim to scream and shout and fall apart. It’s strange really, because he’s waiting for that too but it never comes. The news should tear him apart but all he feels inside is empty. It’s a little frightening, but Tim’s too tired to care. It’s funny how tired he is when he’s been asleep now for the better part of the week. They sit there again in silence for a while, and Tim can feel Raylan’s searching eyes burning into the side of his head. Eventually Raylan coughs a little awkwardly and pushes himself up out of his chair.

“I should let your doctor know you’re up, he’ll probably want to know. And I'll call Art and Rachel, they’ll want to see you.”

Tim nods but doesn’t reply, just watches Raylan walk out of the room with silent eyes. When he’s gone he rolls onto his side again, careful not to bump his shattered hand. His last thought before he drifts back to sleep is to wonder how long Raylan’s been sitting by his bed waiting for him to wake up.

 

* * *

 

As Raylan walks out of the hospital room he throws a last look over his shoulder at Tim. The other man is already passed out again, it’s not the blank, slack jawed, frightening unconsciousness of the past week but genuine sleep. Whether it’ll be peaceful or not is a question that Raylan doesn’t have the answer too, even now lying in the hospital bed his face seems pinched and restless. It seems like a long time since Raylan’s seen Tim look peaceful. Except for that moment on the mountain, that heart stopping terrifying moment when Tim's eyes had fallen shut and hadn't opened. That wasn't peace though, not in Raylan's mind. That was resignation, acceptance, but it wasn't peace. Pulling his phone out of his pocket he sends a quick text to Art letting him know Tim’s awake and coherent then starts to search for the doctor. As it turns out he doesn’t have to search for long, he nearly runs into him walking down the hallway with his head in a clipboard. Reaching out he gives him a light tap on the arm and calls out his name. Dr. Taylor looks up, hair as mussed as it was the first day Raylan had met him. At first Raylan had thought it was a heat of the moment thing, but in the days that followed he had found it was just about always a mess. 

“I thought I should let you know, Tim just woke up and I talked with him for a bit. He seemed pretty with it this time, he’s asleep again though.”

Taylor nods,

“That’s to be expected, the original injuries and the fever took a lot out of him. His body needs time and rest to fully recover so he’ll be sleeping a lot.”

Raylan wants to say that he already has been sleeping a lot, five days to be exact but he restrains himself. Instead he runs his hand through his air and nods.

“I… I told him about his hand. He didn’t really react all, almost seemed like he didn’t care. Should we be worried?”  
  
For his part the doctor seems unconcerned, just shaking his head.

“Everybody processes this sort of thing differently, some have very external responses, other tend to deal with it internally. It might also just be shock preventing him from fully accepting the news. What’s important is that whenever and however the reactions to this manifest he has a strong support system. Considering what he’s been through I might even recommend meeting with a therapist.”

Raylan has to suppress a laugh at the thought of Tim with a therapist, as good as it might be for him he doesn’t see his friend ever willingly talking to somebody about his feelings. Hell, it takes Raylan most of a bottle of whiskey and a crowbar to get anything out of Tim he’d pay to see some over priced college graduate with a note pad and a head full of psycho babble try and get Tim to talk about his feelings. He just nods though, says he’ll mention it to Tim and Dr. Taylor smiles in an almost sad way that makes Raylan think he already knows what Tim’s response will be.

 

* * *

 

Tim wakes to the sound of muted voices somewhere nearby. After a few seconds of listening he recognizes Art and Raylan and after a few more seconds he realizes they’re talking about him. For some reason that he can't quite understand he doesn’t move to let them know he’s awake, instead lies still and listens. Raylan’s talking now, voice hushed and tight. 

“I gave him the news about his hand,”

“How’d he take it?”  
  
“I’m not sure to be honest. It was a little strange, he just sat there. Didn’t say anything at all, barely even looked at me. Thought there’d be more fireworks then that.”

It’s starting to feel uncomfortable to listen to them talk, strange to hear what people say when he's not around to listen. He feels almost voyeuristic and so he shifts, rolls over so he’s facing him and slowly opens his eyes. Art’s back is too him, but Raylan’s facing his way and when he sees Tim he stops talking abruptly and points with his chin to Tim. Art turns, and when he sees Tim he smiles. Walking over to Tim’s bedside he takes a seat in one of the hard plastic chairs.

“Well, I hope you feel better then you look cause you look like crap.”

Tim can’t help but laugh a little and even though it hurts a little it’s a good pain. Raylan walks over to stand behind Art and he smiles too. It’s almost too much for Tim, sitting here in this hospital bed with the evening sun warming the side of his face. To much to be alive and safe and with friends, there’s a sudden pressure behind his eyes and he has to bite the inside of his lip hard so he doesn’t cry. He looks away for a quick second, brushing his hands across his eyes to catch any stray tears and sniffs quickly. Art is still talking in the background his voice familiar and comforting, and for the first time since he woke up Tim thinks things might be okay.

 

* * *

 

 

They let Tim go three days later with a strict regime of pain killers and antibiotics and an appointment for PT once his cast comes off. Tim’s so glad he could cry, another day and he’d sign himself out AMA doctors advice be damned. He hates hospitals, hates lying in bed watching mindless stupid T.V. and waiting for nurses to come in to poke and prod him. Hates the food, hates white walls and pale blue sheets. More then anything he hates the feeling of helplessness he’s consumed by, it's too similar to the feeling he got taped to that chair waiting for judgement. Too similar to sitting in a white room waiting to tell a man his grandson is dead. It's a bitter feeling. The clothes he arrived at the hospital in have been thrown away for obvious reasons so Rachel brought him a change of clothes for his release. He changes in the small bathroom attached to his room, it's difficult to maneuver into them with his right hand in a cast. Luckily Rachel thought ahead and packed sweats and a sweatshirt, nothing with buttons. She threw a pair of sneakers in but he finds it nearly impossible to tie them. He refuses to ask for help tying his fucking shoes so eventually he gives up and just tucks the laces in the top. They ferry him out to the door in a wheel chair against his protests, the nurse ignores his pleas and tells him matter of factly that it’s just procedure and there’s nothing she can do.

Raylan’s waiting at the front, leaning against his car with his hat pulled down low. His face is hidden by inky dark shadows, the sun shines low in the sky behind him and his silhouette glow gold. When he sees Tim walk out the door he stands and pushes back his hat giving him a smirk and his features are hazy and blurred.

“Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” 

Tim laughs a little, and it feels good even if it’s a little empty.

“You’d better believe it.”

Tim spends most of the drive back to his house staring out the window watching the scenery go by. The radio is on, playing low in the background and it fills the car with a comforting white noise. Raylan doesn’t push him to talk, just lets him sit and hums gently along to the radio. Not for the first time Tim’s glad his partner isn’t one of those people who always feels a need to fill the silence. He barely notices when they pull up in front of his house, Raylan has to call his name out before he realizes. It’s only been a little over a week since he’s last been here but it feels like years.

Slowly he gets out of the car, wincing a little as he feels his stitches stretch. He feels old, old and worn out. He makes his way slowly up the walkway to his front door and he can feel Raylan like a shadow behind him. He makes it to the front door and reaches into his pocket to grab his keys only to realize they’re not there, must have been dumped with the rest of his stuff when he got grabbed. Closing his eyes he clenches his jaw tight and breathes through his nose, in and out and tries not to lose it. When he opens them though Raylan’s bending down and pushing aside his door mat to grab the spare key he’d forgotten he kept under there. As he stands and unlocks the door he comments dryly to Tim,

“You really need to find a better place to hide this you know.” 

Tim just shrugs and follows Raylan inside.

“Doesn’t really matter, not like I have anything worth stealing.”

Raylan gives him a look but doesn’t say anything. Tim walks past him into the living room and sets the paper bag full of prescriptions he was carrying on the low coffee table before falling onto the couch. Raylan stands in the doorway and watches him,

“Need anything before I go?”

“I don’t need a maid Raylan, just some rest.”

His voice is a little snippy and he feels bad because Raylan is just trying to help but all he really wants right now is to be left alone. Raylan raises an eyebrow and him but to his credit he doesn’t react beyond that.

“Alright, I’ll let you be then. Remember Rachel’s going to swing by around 6 with dinner. And she’ll probably make you eat it too.”

Tim nods wearily and with a last discerning glance Raylan turns and walks out of the living room. Tim listens to his boots sound against the hardwood floor and the click of the front door behind him. The house seems emptier and darker once he leaves, it’s not a particularly large place but sitting alone on the couch it feels cavernous to Tim. It’s strange, Tim’s lived here for over two years not and yet it feels different and unfamiliar. Like in his absence somebody came and shifted all the furniture a centimeter or two to the right, painted the walls a shade lighter, there’s a difference to it. A change. Or maybe it’s not the house that’s changed, maybe it’s Tim. Maybe he doesn’t fit the right way anymore, the shape of his edges have changed and he doesn’t belong in the spaces he used to. He shakes away the thoughts from his mind like cobwebs.

He wasn’t lying to Raylan when he said he wanted to rest. The need for sleep presses heavy and thick on the back of his eyes, sends soft warm waves across his mind. He’s so tired all the time now, it’s hard for him to stay awake for more then a few hours without getting groggy and irritable, the pain meds they have him on aren’t helping either. The thought of climbing the stairs to his bed is daunting in his current condition so instead he kicks off his shoes and lays back on the couch, pulling the blanket off the back. He’s asleep as soon as he’s horizontal.

 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nowhere left to fall  
> Your body's aching  
> Every bone is breakin'  
> Nothin' seems to shake it  
> It just keeps holdin' on
> 
> -Beat the Devil's Tattoo by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

True to Raylan’s word Rachel shows up at half past six with dinner in hand. Her sharp no nonsense rapping on his door is what rouses him from his rest. He wakes up with a dry fuzzy mouth and a buzzing in his ears, sitting he shakes the last remnants of sleep from his brain and scrubs away the grit in his eyes. Standing slowly he stretches out his back, wincing as his stitches pull, and makes his way to the front door. Slowly he opens the door, Rachel’s standing outside with a smile and a dish covered in foil.

“Hey there cowboy, good to see you up and about again.” 

He smiles a little bit and stepping aside he nods her inside the house, not trusting his voice not to be scratchy and hoarse from sleep. She smiles at him again as she walks past, put’s a gentle hand on his arm and it’s a little unnerving because Rachel doesn’t smile, isn’t gentle like this. Rachel is steel and ice and razor sharp but now she’s smiling at him the way she smiles at her nephew and it makes Tim uncomfortable.

He heads into the kitchen and she follows him, setting the ceramic dish down on his kitchen table. He pulls a glass down and fills it with water, taking a sip. Rachel’s busy bustling around his kitchen, turning to him she asks,

“Where are your bowls?” 

Tim clears his throat and gestures to the cabinets behind her.

“They’re in the leftmost one.”

She turns and opening the wooden doors pulls down two bowls and sets them on the table. He moves to help her, awkwardly pulling out the drawer of silverware with his left hand but she slaps his fingers away and tells him to go sit and wait and he’s smart enough not to argue with her. He watches her, pulling things from shelves and setting things on the table and it’s strange to see Rachel in this environment, he’s so used to seeing her with a gun at her hip and a no nonsense look on her face but here she is walking around his kitchen like she owns the place. It occurs to him it’s the first time she’s ever been in his house and suddenly he’s painfully aware of the bare drab walls and the cavernous emptiness of his home. She says nothing though, just sets out the bowls and silverware and rummages around till she finds a serving spoon Tim forgot he even had. Finally she pulls back the aluminum on the dish she brought to reveal what looks like some sort of pasta with vegetables and spoons servings into both of their bowls. At first they just sit and eat, or in Tim’s case idly poke at his food while pretending to eat. He knows Rachel’s watching him so he takes a few bites and tries to look happy.

“So, how are you feeling?”

He shrugs, takes another bite of pasta and avoids answering. She doesn’t let go though, voice all soft and gentle.

“Tim, you can tell me.”

Something cracks a little inside him then at the softness in her voice and lets his fork clatter against the side of his bowl.

“What do you want me to say? That everything’s great? Or do you want me to admit how broken and upset and helpless I feel right now? Of course I’m not fine, but I’m- I’m coping, alright. I’m handling it."

At first his voice is loud and harsh in the quiet air of the kitchen but by the end it’s quiet and small. Through his whole rant Rachel just watches him across, she doesn’t look angry, just a little sad. After he finishes and the last echoes of his voice ring against the dull kitchen walls she reaches out across the table and places her hand on top of his, her palm is smooth and warm against his skin

“It’s alright, Tim. It’s going to be alright.”

She smiles at him, and he wishes he could believe her.

That night he dreams, not of desert but of dark cabins and soft grass under his back. Dreams of hard chairs and black hammers and a voice with a thick accent soft and threatening. He wakes to the sound of his own screams ringing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

A few days later he goes in to give his report to the two agents from the FBI. He’s feeling better but his hand is still in a cast and his face isn’t clear of fading bruises, not to mention the bulky bandaging across his torso that shows through his shirt. He can feel eyes on him as he walks across the bullpen. Art wasn’t all too excited about him coming in so soon and he makes it clear to Tim he thinks he should be at home. Tim just sighs, exasperated.

“What am I going to be doing at home? Sitting around watching TV and being generally useless.”

Art gives him a stern look,

“Tim, you got shot less then two weeks ago. You probably shouldn’t be out of the damn hospital, let alone back at work.”

“I’m not back at work, I’m just coming in to give my report. Anyways, sitting at home… that’s a lot of time to… to think. I don’t need that right now.”

Art’s eyes soften at that and he sighs huffily.

“Fine, fine. But if they start to get pushy I’m kickin’ them out alright.”

Tim can’t help but smile at Art’s over protectiveness. He might pretend to be tough but when it comes to his people he’s like a pit bull. He’s glad, not for the first time or the last probably, that Art’s on his side. As they walk towards the meeting room he comments,

“You know you couldn’t actually order me home right?”

Art sighs heavily at that and looks at Tim plaintively.

“Could you at least let me pretend I’m in charge of you all?”

Tim just smirks.

“Sure, sorry boss.”

 

* * *

  

The meeting goes about as well as could be expected. The two FBI agents asked Tim a whole bunch of questions he doesn’t have the answer too, Tim answers them as quickly and plainly as possible and comes up with about one hundred and ten new ways to say ‘I don’t know’, and Art sits beside him and glares at the two agents like they pissed in his favorite boots. Honestly Tim’s tired and bored and his hand is starting to ache and all he wants to do is go home, take a painkiller, and pass out. He thinks Art can sense he’s starting to reach his limit because his glare gets even sharper if that’s possible and he leans forward in his chair, coughing loudly and interrupting the one Tim thinks is called Ryans in the middle of his sentence. Ryans gives Art a look and sighs but gestures for him to continue. Tim has to hide a smile at that, Art’s obviously already broken in his guests. 

“Look, not to be rude gentleman but my Deputy is still recovering from his injuries and he should probably be resting in bed right now instead of being interrogated by you two. Would you mind wrapping up your questions?”  
  
The two men exchange glances but the one who’s not Ryan’s whose name Tim can’t quite remember at the moment nods and shuffles some papers in front of him industriously.

“Alright, we just have one last question.”

Tim nods, pressing his thumb and pointer finger into his eyes and squinting at the headache he can feel coming one.

“During the course of your confinement what, if any, information did you give up that could have been conveyed back to the cartel by Valdez?”

Tim sits up, suddenly not tired anymore.

“I said nothing to them. Like I've stated before.”

Ryans smiles almost in a way that’s almost placating and Tim feels his hackles rise, the fingers of his left hand suddenly white against the arm of his chair.

“It’s alright, Deputy Gutterson, you won’t be in trouble. It would be understandable given the level of… interrogation… you underwent. We just need to know what it is so we’re prepared.”

The tone of his voice is condescending, and Tim feels a white hot rage start to bubble in the pit of his stomach. He opens his mouth to say something distinctly unpleasant and that would most definitely get him in trouble but Art beats him to the punch. His voice is icier then a glacier and sharp enough to cut.

“I don’t care what bureaucratic hell you climbed from or what level of authorization you have you do _not_ get to walk into my office and ask that of one of my men that after he almost died to protect one of your goddamn witnesses. Deputy Gutterson has told me, and submitted in his written report that he disclosed nothing to Valdez or his associates and for you not to trust his word is offensive beyond belief. He should be getting a goddamn medal, not being questioned on his reliability. Now he’s answered your questions and I believe that this interview over. I would appreciate it if you got the hell out of my office.”

The two men quail under Art’s tirade and formidable glare, Ryans very obviously regretting opening his mouth and while they try to maintain an air of dignity they both make a hasty retreat. Once they’ve left the room Tim’s grip on his chair finally lessens and he sighs, give’s Art a tired smile.

“You didn’t have to do that you know, I can stick up for myself.

Art just grins at him,

“I know I didn’t have to, I just wanted to. They’ve been a pain in the ass since the day they showed up, any excuse to rip them a new one is a good one.”

Tim laughs.

“Why are the FBI agents we get always such dicks?”  
  
Art shrugs and shakes his head.

“I’m not sure, we’re probably being punished for something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I just wanted to say sorry that this chapter is a little shorter then usual I just wanted to get something up sooner rather then later. I know I haven't updated in a long time and I'm really sorry about that. A combination of the real world taking up a lot of time, writers block, and other projects I have going just kind of shoved this story to the side. I am going to finish this though I promise, and the end is really close so it will probably just be a few more chapters. I just wanted to say thank you for being patient and again, I'm really sorry about the long wait!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm pulling my questions from my shelf  
> I'm asking forgiveness  
> I'm asking about it by myself
> 
> \- Broken Boy Soldier by The Raconteurs

It’s about two weeks after Tim came in for the debriefing with the FBI. Raylan heard from Art went less the perfectly, which doesn’t surprise him at all. The feds are finally packed up and out of the office and things finally feel like they might be returning to normal. Normal except the empty desk across from Raylan, normal but at the same time everything's changed. Tim finally got his cast off a week ago and he and Rachel have been taking turns ferrying Tim to his PT appointments. It was his turn yesterday and Tim had complained bitterly about the session the whole way back to his house. Complained about the therapist and his hand and the stupid exercises she made him do. Raylan had been grateful to drop him off and head back to his own apartment, a healing Tim was apparently an unpleasant Tim to be around. He feels a little guilty about it now. He knows that the reason Tim is acting like this is because he is afraid, all the complaints just a front to hide the crippling fear that his hand will never be same. Sighing he decides to text Tim and see if he wants to go out for a beer tonight as a way off apology. He’s just reaching for his phone when Rachel walks in, a look somewhere between confused and concerned on her face. She makes her way over to his desk, and he spins his chair out to face her, quirking an eyebrow expectantly.

“Have you heard from Tim at all?”  
  
Raylan shakes his head,

“Not since I dropped him off at his place yesterday.”

Rachel bites at her lip and nods, concern deepening on her face. Raylan feels something a lot like worry start to grow in his gut but he tamps it down and sets it aside to examine later.

“What’s the matter?”

She hesitates for a second, but then shrugs in a way that tries to be casual and fails.

“He wasn’t there when I went to check on him this morning. It’s probably nothing…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence but Raylan can hear the but hanging on the end of it like a hundred pound weight. _But._ But what? The truth is that they shouldn’t worry because Tim is more capable then most of taking care of himself, but the truth is also that the last time Tim disappeared he ended up with a bullet in him and now the fear is ever present. Raylan nods,

“You’re right. Probably nothing.”

But even as the words leave his mouth he’s standing, shrugging into his jacket and grabbing his hat off his desk. Rachel gives him a look, crossing her arms.

“Raylan… we can’t just go running after him like this every time . You know he won’t appreciate it.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“I know.”

And he does, but it doesn’t change anything. Turning he walks across the office and out the door, and he can feel Rachel’s eyes on his back the whole way.

 

* * *

 

The first place he checks is the bar by Tim’s house he took him that night so many weeks ago, back at the beginning of this whole mess. It feels like another lifetime that they sat in the sticky booth at the back, feels like another lifetime that Raylan watched his partner lay his soul bare in the hazy darkness with liquor heavy on his tongue. The same bartender is on, Raylan thinks his name is Jake, and he looks up from wiping down the pockmarked surface of the oak bar when Raylan walks in. He eyes him a little suspiciously for a second before offering a little nod of acknowledgement. Raylan walks forward to the bar, leaning a hip against it’s sharp edge. Jake doesn’t stop his polishing, eyes down. 

“Can I get you something, Deputy?”

Raylan shakes his head,

“You seen Tim today?”

Sam pauses in his work for a second, glancing up at Raylan, and then continues, scrubbing a little harder.

“No. Haven’t seen Tim for a while, in fact.”

 The words are spoken slowly, and there is a question in them, a question Raylan pretends not to hear. Raylan sighs and nods his thanks, turning to head for the door. Halfway there Sam’s voice stops him.

“Hey, is he alright? Tim? He’s seemed…pretty messed up lately.”

Raylan stops, and considers his words carefully. Finally he shakes his head.

“No. He’s not alright. But I’m trying to make sure he will be.”

And Sam doesn’t say anything, but Raylan senses a silent approval from him. 

He checks all the bars in the area, even the sleazy ones, and there are more then a few suspicious eyes directed at the star on his belt but he ignores them all. Unfortunately despite a thorough trawl of nearly every bar west of Harlan Tim is in none of them. For a while Raylan sits in his car in the parking lot of some shitty dive, stumped as to where the younger deputy could be. He tries giving him a call, hoping futilely that Tim will answer and the knot of concern in his stomach will be alleviated and they can go get drunk like they used to and pretend nothings wrong. Tim doesn’t pick up though, and the empty dial tone rings against the inside of Raylan’s head. He’s about to give up, about to convince himself this isn’t something he needs to worry about, when something Tim said to him a long time pops into his head. It wasn’t anything really, a little throw away remark in a conversation had during one of the many long drives through Kentucky backcountry that are part of their job. It was nothing, but now it floats to the surface again and Raylan thinks he might know where Tim is hiding.

 

* * *

 

There’s a gun range used by all the law enforcement officers in the area, a few minutes drive away from the marshal’s office but Raylan remembers Tim telling him once he didn’t like going there. ‘To many overconfident incompetent assholes’ were the exact words Tim used, if Raylan recalls correctly. There was another range though, a few miles outside of Lexington, frequented mostly by ex-military and the local gun enthusiasts, which, since it’s rural Kentucky, is most of the local population. But Tim always said he liked it better there, said he felt at home. And Raylan had noted in some small part of his brain that one of the few places Tim felt at home is a gun range. That’s where Raylan goes now.

It’s not much too look at from the outside, a long squat building seemingly dropped in the middle of the surrounding bare fields. It’s all peeling paint and grimy windows, there’s a large sign on the outside proclaiming low monthly membership rates and two for ones on ammo in equally peeling letters. Raylan pulls into the parking lot, finding a spot close to the door in the mostly empty lot. Completely empty in fact, expect for Tim’s truck.

Getting out of his car, he stares at the ugly building in front of him, spits on the cracked pavement, then sighs and makes for the door. There’s an old man sitting behind the front desk, flipping through a magazine. He barely looks up when Raylan walks in, just drawls in that heavy Kentucky accent,

“It’s $10 dollars an hour, 50 cents per target.”

Raylan shakes his head, walks over to the desk.

 “I’m actually looking for my friend, Tim. Tim Gutterson.”

The old man looks up at that, giving him a once over.

“Well you’re in the right place. He’s been here since noon. You can head on in if you like.”

A quick glance at his watch shows that Tim has been here five hours. Raylan nods his thanks and walks past the counter and into the range. Tim’s in the booth at the furthest end of the building, ear protection on and  face blank as slate. Raylan walks over slowly and stands behind Tim, the other man still unaware of his presence focused entirely on the gun in his hands and the target hanging at the other end of the range. He watches him, for a few moments. There’s a pile of discarded targets at his feet, stacking up to his ankle almost, and they’re all full of holes. Raylan’s watched Tim shoot before, watched him put a neat cluster of holes center mass without blinking, without breathing. The holes on the targets by Tim’s feet are different, still tight, still accurate, but not like before. They stray farther from the center, good, but not excellent.

He waits till Tim empties his clip to speak up. Bum hand or not Tim could still put a nice hole in him from five feet away and he doesn’t think surprising him while he's carrying a loaded weapon is a great idea at the moment. When he holsters gun and hits the button to recall the target, slipping off his ear protection, Raylan clears his throat. Tim jumps, spinning and a flash and Raylan can see his hand stray to his side. He puts his hands up, placating.

“Woah there, just me.”

Tim’s face relaxes a little and he drops his hand from the handle of his glock but there’s still something tight to his body, something tense.

“Raylan.”

He says, voice flat and dull. He’s silent after that and Raylan takes that as his cue to respond. 

“I’ve been looking for you, buddy.”

Tim shrugs, turning he pulls the target sheet out of it’s clip and throws it into the pile on the ground without looking at it.

“Well, you’ve found me.”

Raylan sighs, and taking his hat off runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know how to handle this sort of thing. Anything he says is liable to make things worse instead of better. He wishes Rachel was here, she's good with this stuff. But she’s not, Raylan is, and he has to say something.

“What’s been going on with you, Tim?” 

For a second Tim’s shoulders tense and Raylan thinks he fucked up but then they slump and there’s something defeated about Tim’s posture that makes Raylan’s stomach turn. Reaching forward he rests a gentle hand on Tim’s shoulder, light enough that it would be easy to shake off but Tim doesn’t move. They stand like that for a moment, Tim silhouetted like a ragged paper man by the harsh lights of the range and Raylan’s hand resting on his shoulder. And for all that he’s standing here in front of Raylan, warm flesh and blood and beating heart, Raylan’s afraid Tim died in that cabin. His voice when he speaks again his voice is wrecked like so much splintered wood on the shore.

“I don’t know who I am anymore. They- they took that from me.”

Raylan is silent, letting Tim continue, not wanting to shatter the moment.

“I have always tried to do my duty, to do right. Why I joined the Marshal’s service, why I joined the fucking military. It’s been my whole goddamn life. And I thought doing the right thing and doing my duty were the same thing, but…I’m not so sure anymore. Because I let an innocent man go to prison when I could have stopped it, and I protected a man who didn’t deserve my protection. One of them was my duty, and one of them was the right thing to do, and I don’t know which one hurt me worse.”

Raylan is silent for a long time, not sure how to respond. When he does the words are halting and careful.

“Life-life is full of hard choices, and full of what if’s and should have could have would have’s. At the end of the day we just have to do our best, and that’s really all we can do. And yes maybe doing your duty and doing the right thing aren’t always the same thing, but they don’t have to be. Because you can decide, what is right, and what is your duty, and which is most important to you. Because protecting Wilcox that was your duty, sure, but I don’t think that Ted Billings is angry at you for letting him go to prison.”

Tim’s shoulders hitch almost imperceptibly at that, breath catching in his throat. His voice is choked when he speaks,

 “I-I let his grandson die.”

Raylan sighs again, weary and sad.

“No, no you didn’t, Tim. His grandkid made bad choices that not even you could save him from, and I think Billings knows that.”

Tim is silent for a moment, eyes boring into the ground by his feet like the answers to all his questions are buried beneath the cool grey concrete. Finally, in a voice so quiet Raylan can barely hear it,

“I think I need to go visit someone. I’m just not sure I can do it alone.”

And Tim doesn’t ask, but he doesn’t have to.


End file.
